Alone, away from my wife and child, I was in hell. I was leaving hell and going as fast as my Pontiac could go to be where my sunlight was. I drove like a man would drive who was escaping from hell in a machine that should never have been put on the road. The notched and domed pistons in the bored out 389 felt like sledge hammers as the car roared along the road in the dark. It was fortunate for every living thing that once it passed 10pm few people were on the road in the `60s. I had reached my limit, mounted my beast and was in full flight.

I had traveled north to where my wife's parents spent their summer vacations many times before. They took her there in summers and I would drive up and back on weekends to see her. I had come to know the twists and turns of the road ahead.