Alex:
This wasn’t a party. It was a battlefield dressed in leather and sweat. And I was right where I f*****g belonged.
The wind hit different out here.
Drier. Meaner. Like sandpaper to the skin and sunstroke to the soul.
Burnout in the Basin was carved into the desert like a war wound, left to fester every year with bikers, outlaws, and bad decisions. A dust bowl of chrome and sin, roaring engines and territorial pissing matches—where reputations were built on broken noses and blood-slick asphalt.
Exactly the kind of chaos that made my heart beat steady.
We rolled in just past nine the night before the big event.
The sun had dipped low enough to cast everything in molten gold. Shadows stretched long across the ground, swallowing the lines between safe and stupid. Tents were already
