black chevrolet

A shower of leaves from a brittle tree cascades down on my visor and I squeeze my eyes closed for a split second. I really don't need to be going 60 mph down this road. Really. And the police cruiser arrives around the bend up ahead, and I pat Suzi down to a straight-laced 45 mph, slide into the next curve, and say hi to my shadow again.

I don't have company, and shadows are company. I don't have to be alone as long as the sun is shining. The shadow flies along, rippling over the dips in the pavement, shredding along the gravel on the shoulder, durable trustworthy little thing that it is. It's happy just running away with me. I like my shadow.

My shadow is useful, too. It tells me if I have some velcro strap flying in some direction it oughtn't. It tells me if anything looks like it's about to fall off the underside of the motorcycle. (I still don't know what parts are independent in potency) It tells me if the saddlebags are sitting as they ought to sit.