June 14, 1999
“My front tires are so worn I can see the steel belts,” Michelle told me on the phone. “They could blow out any minute. Will you come with me to Kingston to fix them?”
We drove on the shoulder of Route 28, so that other cars might pass. Our pace was that of a horse and carriage. “I feel like a carpenter in 1814!” I said.
Travelers on Route 28 expect the ground to be a blur. When we toss a coffee cup away, it disappears, or enters the blur world. But Michelle and I could see each coffee cup. A tree would approach as if we’d thrown out a rope with a grappling hook and were pulling it toward us. Nothing is disturbed at that speed. Our car did not whoosh or create wind. A crow continued eating a squirrel’s guts as we passed.
