Up ahead, appearing quickly around a curve before
darting around another, was a yellow sports car, low
slung, tight gripped, it dashed and curved hard, then
dashed again before disappearing. It was a wicked
ride dancing on the edge of elation and extinction. It
was a convertible but I could not see the driver, too far
and too fast. I counted maybe eight curves before I
lost it. Over the next grade I was offered a view of long
straight down-slope with no yellow dot or red tailed
light in sight. Whether it broke the sound barrier over
the far horizon, or simply made a turn onto a side road,
I did not expect to see it again. There were other
things to occupy my mind at the moment. I tried to
piece the trail – the roads - the web. I was getting
sucked into something. The convertible was just a
distraction. Then it struck me. James Dean died up
along this stretch. Driving just like that, no doubt. Hard
and high on the edge of his headlights. The light was
failing in the shadow of the hills and I wondered to
myself if I might come across a shattered yellow heap
around the next corner then backed off the pedal just a
bit to assure I didn’t join it.
