The two-mile marker whizzed by. My Achilles tendon strained as my foot tried to shove the accelerator through the floorboard looking for more speed. The mph indicator on my Garmin was slowly climbing. I hit the next quarter-mile marker and I was there. Now all I had to do was hang on. But a mile can be a very lonely trip in a fifty-year-old, two-cylinder machine with the tachometer pinned at 8,000 rpm.
And did I mention the searing heat?
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