« on: June 17, 2014, 12:08:47 am »
Mountains rolled past at the edges of my vision but the ones ahead loomed and stood steadfast, mockeries of a mad flight to that high nestled jewel Bogota. My hand vibrated with the engine. I held the throttle back and the little bike whined and sped on. It was a nimble machine and in my state I hoped I could match it should the need arise but more I hoped that time might think better of its inexorable journey onward and I might find myself again in that city, another tourist to the Museo del Oro but one with a purpose beyond a photo or two of all the glittering gold.
A Toyota slid into my lane. Its brake lights flared and I cut to the right in a deft swerve. Somewhere beyond my frame of mind a horn voiced a driverís displeasure but I couldnít place its location or even if it were my own.
Leaving Zipaquira the traffic moved along with some speed but here as we all grew closer to Bogota our push onward was one of determination, a sea of people and steel with the singular simple goal to return home and all of us in one anotherís way. The number of lanes doubled and then doubled again and every few hundred meters a car pushed its way to the far right lane and then parked on the side of the road.
A sign read Pico y Placa, then another, and vaguely I thought of this monster referred to in hushed tones throughout the trip. We came home early in the afternoon to avoid the Pico y Placa and we hatched schemes to outwit the beast. Another sign showed itself and the cars and trucks pulled over were in a line now, in some places two cars thick, heeding the words of warning. I couldnít remember if motorcycles were subject to the rule but it didnít matter. I had no time such things.
Brake lights lit in glaring red rows ahead and for the first time since I left the little town I stopped. I stood with the bike between me, its heat, without the wind rushing past, now threw itself onto my bare legs. Cars lined against each othersí bumpers as far as I could see.
I sighed, and swallowed, and sighed again. I disengaged the clutch and twisted the throttle again to ease on, looked over my right shoulder, and put myself directly between the lanes. My hand moved the throttle back just a bit more and the first two cars crawled by on either side. I sped up.
Side view mirrors launched themselves at my face. They reached out to strike and by some miracle missed every time. I sped up and it was not enough and I wondered if such a mundane thing as traffic could keep me from pursuing the Debt Collector that I am even capable of the task. It fell to pathetic hands. A lowly twenty-something American in a country I donít understand even without the corrupting influence of Necronomicoin.
Ineptly I trundled along the highway, at twice the speed that I should and half what I needed. It would be better if traffic simply stopped me.