Around the bend a high riding four-wheeler, passenger waving frantically as they pass, too late now, gravel into gulley, nowhere to turn around, into a washout, sides funneling down into a tire-wide tracklet, rock ahead, up onto the wall to miss it and over, upside down into an adjacent arroyo, cycle on top and gear, heft of tank and handlebar, tugging to get my leg out from under, something burning, working free, one boot behind, laces welded to the exhaust, barefoot but standing, helmet in hand, choking on the settling dust, a shock of blue above, gasping.

Back on the road by dusk, muttering inside my helmet, old fool and smiling, grateful.

Arizona Washout Picture

Wide awake.


Comments are closed.