Corkscrew. Early in the morning. The air was chilly but inviting. Two motorcycles, alone, wandering corkscrew. The road roams through the Everglades from 41 to 82. It is officially number 850. A bunch of numbers that equal a quiet, winding, peaceful empty journey back in time. Panther Crossing signs are posted. No New Mines signs are up. Rocks are for sale. Old plantations and a bus full of inmates heading to do some grass cutting or other roadside work. Yet the bikes roll. No sound. No conversation. No nothing but an open road and empty. It can fill the day. The gas light on the Warrior lights up. 20 miles to any possible gas station. But we roll on. We fill up just outside of Estero. How was the morning spent? Rolling through timelessness. An ageless experiment.