Harley Dome
Let me tell you the tale of Harley Dome, a town like no other, perched in the wild deserts of Utah. It was 1989, and though small in size, Harley Dome played in the big leagues of the extreme off-road world. Every year, the best in the business descended upon the town—motocross riders with hearts of fire, Baja racers with dust in their veins, rally drivers seeking the edge of speed, and even the strange roller skiers (it was a thing), gliding down hills on what can only be considered an extreme-sport abomination.
The town square was the heart of it all. Just before the world changed forever, the good folks of Harley Dome had welcomed a gift from the gods of marketing—a towering Jumbotron, courtesy of Mt. Dew. It cast a shadow longer than the memory of any road that led into town, but when it flickered to life, it washed the plaza in a warm glow that shimmered like sunlight caught in a jar. Day after day, an army of videographers combed the desert, capturing the wild, dusty exploits of the racers on grainy VHS tapes. And when the sun sank behind the towering red cliffs, the town would gather in their dirt-streaked jumpsuits, laughing and shouting as they watched themselves and their fellow daredevils conquer the land.
Ah, times were good in Harley Dome. But every tale has its twist, and for this town, it was The Incident. No one knows exactly how it happened or why, but one day, a strange bubble, shimmering like heat on the horizon, wrapped itself around the town, cutting them off from the rest of the world. The roads, once leading away beyond the horizon, now curled back upon themselves in a way no map could explain. Gravity itself seemed to bend, so that every road out of town sloped downhill—until you found yourself right back where you started. Try as they might, no one (except for the chosen one, Jussi Valtteri) could escape the loop.
The townsfolk, who once thought they were bound for the world's farthest corners of adventure, found themselves trapped, their universe shrunk to the desert basin and surrounding cliffs of Harley Dome. But while many despaired, some saw opportunity in the strangeness. For the gravity that now pulled them back was also a dream come true for those who had always chased speed. Gravity itself had become their ally, turning the hills and trails into endless downhill tracks. They no longer needed engines—they had the very earth beneath their feet.
And so, thirty-five years later, the Domers, as they now call themselves, have made a life inside their strange bubble. The mighty Jumbotron still stands, casting its light over the cobblestone square each evening. There are no more roaring engines, for the gasoline is long gone, but the people still gather, drawn by the pull of the screen as much as the pull of gravity. They watch themselves and their neighbors race through the endless dunes and canyons, gravity-powered rigs flying down the impossible roads that twist like ribbons around their world.
Some chase glory, others just a fleeting moment of perfect thrill, but all of them, in one way or another, still live for the speed that has always defined life inside Harley Dome.
