The Immortal Harley Rider

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and forth as I sought a path around the car – I first veered toward the ditch and then to the opposing lane, but a station wagon was already filling the gap and heading my way and the barb-wire fence and deep ditch barred that route. I laid my gallant monster on its left side and the asphalt screamed in protest and agony as my metallic beast dug furrows into its tough skin (or was that me screaming?).
A giant, unseen hand must have been vicariously toying with the hands of time, like a disc jockey in a disco lounge playing with the stereo’s stylus on an album. My mind raced, with fear-driven velocity, to find a way out of the situation. Like a Sam Peckinpaw movie, the scenario seemed to play itself out in a mixture of real-time, double-time and slow motion sensations. At times the various mixtures of time-sense seemed to be occurring simultaneously, as if I were having a multiple of experiences of the same event. I also seemed to experience a variety of perspectives of the ...

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