Roy continued his mad dash north. Tonight he was the Ichabod Crane of the cycle world. As if the headless horseman was in hot pursuit. Or worse, the devil himself chasing a man who had somehow come into possession of a piece of truth which could give some sense to a mad cap world of time and space which could dispel the shadows on the wall of the cave and lead to freedom.

The sixties and seventies were long since gone. The eighties rolled by with relative ease of the spinning wheels into the nineties and the night continued dark. The lights of the driveways to the estates on the river flashed by one by one. Each a sentinel post to wealth.

The white line stretched away on the macadam, infinite in distance, held to time and place by the will of the rider and the grasp of Jos arms around his waist. Roy looked in the rear view mirror. In the distance but still there was the glow of the red light bars.

Jo had quit telling him to stop the flight. It was useless. She knew he wouldnt stop. Ahead Roy could see the flashing lights of an oncoming police car. He pulled the cycle to a quick stop in front of a drive-in theater. On the screen, a figure, fuzzy and flat got off his horse and entered a saloon. They werent selling tickets. The booth was closed. It didnt make any difference anyway. He wasnt buying any. Straight into the entrance leaving only a swirl of dust to mark his passage. A quick turn to the left past the front aisle, between two cars of neckers. He pulled up short and killed the engine and lights.

It was a splendid plan, but it didnt work. Roy sat there. Jo still gripped him around the waist. At this moment the screen was silent. Over the silence Roy could hear the motor on the bike starting to cool, a slight cracking sound as the pipes went from hot yellow to blue.

He sat there thinking. He turned to Jo, Get off. Get yourself a coke from that machine at the concession stand. Blend in.

Damn it, Roy. What am I supposed to do?

Wait, Ill be back.

She got off. She was still standing there when the floodlights on the screen came on.

Roy started the bike. He knew what was coming.

A sheriffs patrol car blocked the entrance. Two state patrol officers and a sheriffs deputy came in the entrance.

Christ, he thought. Theyre taking this way too seriously. It must be contempt of cop. He started slowly to move between the rows of cars toward the back of the theater.

Jo was nowhere in sight. This game was up. The cops started to close him in. The patrol car moved in his direction. He knew they were going to try and knock him off the bike. This time he poured on the gas, down the row and up the next. There was a fence around the drive-in made of corrugated metal. It was old and in poor repair. On the other side was a grassy strip and the Scioto River Road. It wasnt a cave and there werent any shadows on the wall but on the other side was freedom.

He came flying down the row between the last of the cars. At the last minute he pulled the Kawasaki up and hit the fence with a full wheelie. The fence went down like papier-mch. An eight-foot section went flat. A cloud of dust rose around him and the sweet night air rushed in to greet him. He sped north at eighty miles an hour. Behind him was bedlam. He looked back. They came out in a rush. He could see them light up. The black and white in the lead. Goddamn, whats with these guys?

The mist from the river rolled over the road outlining a swatch of light from the beam of Roys headlight. The beam of the light seemed to dance, going up and down with the contours of the road, then with a mind of its own it bounced from side to side. What had been mist turned to fog. He slowed the cycle. He no longer feared pursuit. Not in this fog. At the first side road he turned east. He dropped to fifty miles an hour. Now the fear in his stomach was for the twists and turns of this hilly road. Not really hills but rise after rise. Each with a question - which way is the road going to turn? He dropped to low beam. It didnt help much. He slowed even more. He dropped to the side of the road to a full stop. He held the Zippo to the cigarette. For the first time he realized his hand was shaking. The end of the cigarette glowed a bright red. He took a deep drag drawing the smoke deep into his lungs.

He sat there a good ten to fifteen minutes thinking, going over his options. How were the cops going to react? Would they be waiting? He really didnt have any choice. He had to pick up Jo. He spent a good thirty minutes cruising the back roads. He wasnt sure where he was. The fog had gotten heavier. At the next road he turned west. He couldnt miss the River Road. All of these county roads ended at the Scioto. Easing up to the stop sign he listened for traffic. Not a sound.

As strange as it seemed the quiet was rattling his nerves. He felt tense. He was sweating slightly. He couldnt commit to a line of action. Finally he snapped the gear into low, pulled out onto the road. To hell with it. In seconds he was up to seventy. He felt better, relaxed. The tenseness was gone. Its the mind he thought. It can fuck you up. Too much thinking and you can end up on a precipice, teetering on the end.