The Sun was blocked by the roof till about four o'clock; now peers 
in with blaring intensity.  Like fire it sears the cheeks and the dashboard 
relentlessly.  Elbows hang out rolled-down windows.  Air pushes, yells in, 
buffets unanchored papers and such, prompting them to yearn for freedom 
from the back seat.  Unseen bumps in the concrete transfer their 
irregularities into the seats, jostling the vertebrae, vibrating the feet, 
knocking the knees together.  When the head leans against the side of the 
cabin for a bit of shut-eye, seismographic tremors travel around the skull, 
preventing any respite from the monotony.  The heat, ever-throbbing, is 
pervasive, the fan on full power is futile in combat.  AC - no chance, not 
enough juice.  Stomachs nauseated by the labyrinthine jags and jots, zigs 
and zags, throwing equilibrium out the window, sanity to the wind.  65 
MPH.  Automobiles with trailers  55 MPH.  Slow traffic keep right.  
Bump bump.  Topping the crest, the concrete slides down, serpent like, 
properly banked by engineers with their figures and slide-rules and 
statistics.  Trucks gear down, grade eight percent next so many miles.  
Speed enforced by radar.  A gold line travels along on the left-hand side.  
Sometimes alone, or paired, or fractured.  Yet it always goes along, 
plaintively perhaps, but always it goes. A green square down the concrete 
grows slowly.  After half a minute, Road 126: 2 Miles.  Is  this the one?  I 
think it is, yah... no, wait a sec, lemme see.  A diddybag is rummaged 
through, hands diving into the murky depths of food, books, knick-knacks.  
An old Triple-A map emerges, stained by coffee, potato chip oil, years 
of use and/or disuse.  Awkwardly the great map of red black blue lines 
unfolds, much too large for the space provided, the wind harassing it, 
creases folding the wrong way, getting caught up in itself, the air, the 
windshield, fumbling fingers.  Yah, hold on a minute... let's see... uhhh, 
we are right ... here.  An old Bic pen, cap on, draws over one of the red 
lines.  Yep, I think. What did that sign say a bit a go?  ...What sign?  You 

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16 Renford Road (two)
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