Silence, for just a brief moment, as the vacuum trailing the semi sucks you in. Not too long, glance to the left, to see if the silver Mitsubishi has maintained his 75 miles, or if he has anticipated your move, you swinging wide, through the narrowing gap between the minivan in front of you following the semi far too closely, and the black Honda on your right.
It all comes down to whether or not Mitsubishi-boy stays cool, doesn’t grow a pain just to try to cut you off, with just barely enough room in front of him for you to squeeze by the bigrig, then jig right again, past the yellow xA, driver oblivious to your presence until you burn past, needle pushing 90, barely skimming the ground, or so it seems, over the bumpy confluence of two great rivers of steel, two main arteries feeding this desert region. Remember the sandwich effect, you think, people aren’t quite fully awake at this hour. That woman driving the xTerra just checked her lane, or so you suppose, seeing her car slide six inches to the left, ready to merge, without signaling, into your lane, just as you’re trying to squeeze past this flatbed. Her wheels on the quad-bumps, du-du-du-dum, again, and your vision goes tunnel, chest to the gastank, whole body coming up on its four contact points ever so slightly.
This time, 95 is just barely enough to get you alongside, so she sees you, her gray SUV swerving back just in time.
"There’s my hole gotta fly", you scream, the terror and adrenaline of the close call spooking you like a cat, riled up, pupils wide, ears slightly back, straining at reality, one paw coming up ever so slightly, then turning, running for its’ life, tail up, hind legs to the side.
BUY THE RED CAR. Stay on fucking program. Do not let you mind wander. Stay fucking focused, even if you’ve made it past the last pack of cars, and are chewing pavement toward the next.
Check your mirrors, both sides. Duck the left shoulder, see directly behind you. Check them again. Any sign of speed bursts, possible motorcycle cops. There, a flash of blue, crossing quadruple yellow lines, a lone man, risking license suspension by being alone in his car, in the carpool lane in the first place, and passing into it just to get around the yellow xA that seems to have caught up a bit. Good for him.
The blue BMW shoots past, pushing 95, and you’re tempted to shadow him, goad him on, just within his peripheral, every time he checks his mirrors, egging him on, supervigilant for planes, lurking police, radar guns. You want to run him like a scared mustang, cutting the gas the moment you glimpse static, letting him take the fall. 80 will do, we need to make it to work alive.
The speed control planes don’t ever check the interchange, you have noticed, too many damn cars, eight lanes converging, everyone speeding up to get in front of the foreign rush coming up on their right, left. There, three cars up, about two hundred yards, passing lane, looks like a coworker. Yessir, it’s her. Two lanes over, now, there’s the gap! Half a second later and you’re a carlength behind her, dodging right, along side her, a wink and off again, back to the outside lanes. The whole thing didn’t take four seconds, but you know she’ll give you shit about it, you know she’s worried now, knows you’re somewhere up ahead, you know she has something to do on her drive, other than listen to the baseball scores from the day before. Boy does the home team suck. TEAMSUCK.
75? Must have been thinking too much. Get you brain in gear, or you’re dead. Moments of repose, such as this, after the merge, can be extremely deadly. You’re sitting on an engine, with two wheels, holding on for dear life, the bike seemingly alive beneath you, so very responsive, so majestically crafted, you simple must have the Japanese girl at work translate a letter to the Suzuki Corporation, thanking them profusely for making such a fine machine, such a perfectly crafted vehicle.
That’s neither here nor there now. Sing, that’ll occupy the thinker’s time. Right, the battle hymn of the republic. I have seen a fiery anthem writ in burnish’d rows of steel … good. Remember to stick to the right up the hill, everyone slows down, to about 70, and you can burn past on the right, maintaining constant speed, even have a bit of fun dodging the poor saps merging, trying to build a head of steam up this long incline.
Back down, not much longer now, just through the valley, check the ruined vineyard on the right. Still no progress, a fine slope, just freshly planted after the hardest rains in decades hit, washing whole sections downhill, millions for sure gone, eroded away. That’s the risk of business though.
Flashback to running out of gas, when there was water in the front sparkplug. Sitting on the offramp, on the left-hand side, counting cars, timing it so you could hurtle across in front of oncoming traffic, running with the bike to the gas station, coaxing it back to life.
The highway loses a lane, causing motorists who aren’t paying attention severe annoyance, as they suddenly find themselves behind a dumptruck doing 40, people panicking, trying desperately to get over, those in our lane not budging. I budge, as my life is currently more valuable than my pride.
Through another gap, some room to breath again, all the exciting parts past now, just a challenge of finding the hotties, available McMilfersons, checking for wedding bands, quality of hairdo, cleanliness of car, earrings, pout, singing, blearyeyed sleepiness, distant coolness, checking to see if my guesses are correct, whether they look or not.
Ok, enough gawking, head forward, strike up another tune, random hummings, trying to make your helmet vibrate, now the license plates of the cars up ahead, watch them dance as your eyes vibrate to the frequency at which the light somehow tricks the mind, making the solid metal rectangle jiggle, slipslide. It’s easier with cathode ray monitors, once you find the frequency at which they spit out electrons, you see the dark bars moving slowly upscreen, like shitty TVs in shitty movies.
Another digression. Once again, fucker, there is NO time to relax, to daydream,. Not on a bike. Not when some people drive 50, with flat tires, no one signals for lane changes, and the cops have hawkeyes. Not then.
Just get to work on time, and in one peace.
…
Thank you Ganesha,Papa Legba, St. Christopher, all other gods of the traveler. Thank you for my safe arrival, once more.
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