PAGE 47
FALL 2018 ISSUE 02 / VOL . 03
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Suddenly , the dust devil takes notice of my passing . It cuts the angle and slams into me . In an instant , the tan dust obliterates the view . I feel as though I ’ m embedded in pine . Unguided by my hand , the motorcycle moves , and pitches over almost to the point of scraping pegs . I break through the dust and find that I ’ m now in the opposite lane , the clear air is turbulent , as violent as that in the dust cloud . It takes forever to wrestle the bike back into my lane , to return to vertical , to bring my heart back into my body .
If U . S . Route 50 wasn ’ t the loneliest road in America , I would be someone ’ s hood ornament . In Nevada , there are grains of dust that have the memory of my face that could form the mold of a perfect scream , of Han Solo embedded in carbon steel .
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