Ever since understanding Bradbury’s abstinence from driving, juxtaposed to my dad’s enthusiasm for cars and racing, it’s like I’ve been intensely aware of the opposing coin faces: the convenience and thrill versus the risk and stupidity.

While I’ll forever be an advocate for bicycle commuting and riding, there’s something oddly comforting about cruising down an open highway with the car speakers pumping music.

Thank goodness I’ve yet to witness fatalities. I imagine that when (if) I do, I’ll snap awake in horror and devour the utter nonsense of entrusting these metal death-rides to the hands of strangers. It’s not the machine, but the human, right?

But I love humans too much, largely to a fault, and I’m naive, and I haven’t seen enough to form a cynical hardness. I suppose that’s the closest I’ll get to a conclusion at this point. I’ll just blast radio music until I drown in streetlights and the sun blinds me on blazing patches of asphalt rain.


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