Tom

I PARK my motorcycle at the Rio Grande gorge bridge and walk down to check out the scene at the end of the bridge.

And it is a scene. There are vendors assembled on the side, some with tables set up, some operating out of buses or the backs of pickup trucks. There are pinon nuts for sale. Local honey. Jewelry. The vendors are a mix of Native Americans and hippies.

A bridge stretches across the Rio Grande gorge, a nauseating six hundred or more feet above the giant canyon. I hear a tour guide telling someone it’s one of the highest bridges in the country. I recognize it from Easy Rider and one of the Terminator movies—favorites of mine.

I scent the air, catching the smell of coffee, ice cream, sweat. The sun beats harder in the high altitude and my leather riding jacket suddenly feels too hot.

I peel it off and toss it over the seat of the bike. I don’t know why, but I have a good feeling about this rest ar