by Keith Rodgers
We have driven down the monotonous stretch of the I-95 south of Richmond, Virginia. Miles of straight blacktop, except when it’s silver grey concrete streaked with long black rubber skid marks that end with no explanation, not even a shard of glass. It was late in April when we came south, and by mid-morning it was already hot on the Carolina coastal plain. Large billboards pushing fireworks and towel outlets flicked by. The carcasses of dead truck tires lay in twists on the highway’s shoulder, mile after mile. Like the rest of the endless traffic we ran along at a respectable 10 mph above the limit. From time to time I checked breaks in the roadside tree cover for the cars of lurking state troopers or glanced up through the windshield at the rope securing the prow of the kayak on the car roof. For over 800 miles neither gave us any trouble.
