My jaw set in a grim line as my eyes met those of the truck driver beside me. Our speedos locked on 75 and my my billowing jacket suddenly decompressed as my aerodynamic profile reached optimisation.
I had been riding for just under an hour, estimate endurance three hours, destination nowhere in particular. There was one main purpose for this morning's trip. Well, sure, I wanted to get out of the house, get some fresh air, and not have to talk to anyone. But there was another reason for it: successfully keep in peak hour traffic for three hours, suppressing any other thoughts that are trying to kill you, and you'll be a better man; fail to give the road your complete and undivided attention, and you'll most likely end up a dead man.
A storm was raging inside my head. My girlfriend had publicly acknowledged what I dreaded for weeks but she had refused to confirm or deny: she had been cheating on me. No, she didn't consider it cheating, she didn't consider I existed any more.
My gaze moved from the computer screen in the cop car beside me as the lights changed, and I gave him a slight nod, planting my right foot in the muzzle clasping the end of my lower appendage.