I defy red lights and one-way streets, take bends without braking, challenging the city to blast my wheels from under me and send me crunching to my death. The police are soon after me, sirens wailing. They set up roadblocks that I dodge automatically, brain ticking over mechanically, analyzing the routes ahead, anticipating the blocks, detouring before I come upon them. Part of me wants to ride into an ambush and go down in a hail of gunfire like a Wild West outlaw, but another part resists and pleads with me to cling to life. While the two halves wrestle with one another, I fly one step ahead of death, ready to stop, turn and greet it with open arms if my darker desires win out. Thoughts of Bill whistle between the spokes of my wheels. They’re faster than my bike—faster than anything—but they don’t overtake me, content to tag along, tickling the back of my neck, whispering, “No escape, not even in death.” I turn into a long open stretch and spot a burning barricade. This is an entry point to the east, blocked off by the locals.
