Eighteen-wheelers surround me like killer whales on the hunt. They’re hungry. Eighty miles-per-hour hungry. It’s revving up my appetite. I’m the dolphin, weaving and searching for a safe space in this river of metal. The goal—avoid getting squashed or side-swiped into a concrete barrier. I follow highway etiquette, but I’ll pass on the right when the old whale has trouble swimming uphill. The surrounding landscape looks peaceful—rolling hills on the horizon and cows grazing in the fields, but on the highway it’s a battle for supremacy. As dusk creeps in, I shed the dorsal fin and go stealth.
By Charles Gray