He rode north through the gathering darkness, knowing now he would make it home and put a finish on this 800-mile day. He was only partially glad of that.
He rode the interstate now, after 600 miles of the small, curving roads that he delighted in. Cruising easily at 80, his was very nearly the fastest vehicle on the road, a sleek, faired missile. Sitting atop the motorcycle he did not usually see that. But detaching his mind he could see himself as he must appear to those drivers around him and it pleased him. Whether he was pleased about going home he wasn't sure.
He had begun early in the morning, intending to stay out the night. He headed west, seeking the same thing he always sought. Just before the mountains he stopped to buy fuel, a liter of water, and a biscuit. While eating he noted the sun bore down sharply, but the humidity was low. That meant he would not sweat much in his leathers today.
Finishing his breakfast, he went back into the store and bought a small bottle of baby powder. Sprinkling a little on the seat of the motorcycle, he spread it with his hand. The powder clung to everything. He wet a napkin with water from the bottle and swabbed the side panels clean.
Six more miles and the mountain pass lay before him. He attacked it hard, rolling back and forth through the curling switchbacks. The powder relieved the tackiness of his leathers, allowing him to move easily from side to side. The only sounds were the heavy thrumming of the engine, muted through the ear plugs he wore, the rush of wind past his helmet, and the gentle scurrring of the footpegs as they touched down. He loved this road. He rode it well this day.
He did not stop at the top of the mountain, as he usually did, but continued over the crest to begin the long downward spirals, maintaining his brisk pace. Halfway down the mountain he finally encountered a slower-moving car, which forced him to check his speed. He thought about it, but then decided not to pass over the double-yellow. Too soon. Too close to home. There would be plenty of time for that later.
The road straightened on the valley floor on the far side of the pass. Had he the power to conjure the thoughts in his mind, he would have thought only of the road and of riding today. But as soon as he made the flat of the valley floor the road straightened and thoughts of home intruded. He wished he could cast them away. But he had no control over the images that coursed through his head.
At the far end of the valley he turned south on the valley road. He made good time, maintaining his pace at an even 80. He ran now down the valley, with mountains over both shoulders. The valley road went directly south, but it was a lazy road and it moved around rather than through the local topography. For a straight, fast road, it had much character, the man thought. He could feel himself flowing with the cut and contour of the land, and that made him feel part of it.
Entering the parkway at Leeds was like a freshening. It was always like that-any vestiges of fatigue from the two fast hours getting there falling away to new delight in the wondrous road which ran through marvelous country. He quickly established a rhythm which carried him in a rocking cadence back and forth through the sweeping turns. He set his speed at 65, but had to work to keep it there. The smoothness of the road and the engineered consistency of the turns made it possible to go much faster. But twenty over was already pushing it. He didn't need any more points.
The low humidity made for a cool morning along the mountain crests over which the road ran. Over his shoulders lay beautiful vistas into the valleys beyond. The man knew he should stop before the morning light was gone altogether and take some photographs. In the tank bag he carried his good camera, the F4, a small tripod, and several lenses. But he could not make himself stop. The road mesmerized him, as it usually did, and he continued on.