Fog
by Titus Gee
The world appears just ahead of me, maybe ten feet, twenty? Materializing out of a foggy gray mass that obscures the path ahead. My high beams only make the wall more solid but I keep them on anyway, throwing all my focus forward.
I start out slow, easing into the maze of lowlands and canyons, straining for a better view. A few distant lights promise that the way does continue but they wander in the distance, faint and indistinct, then loom suddenly to illuminate small areas of clarity. Crossroads appear and I strain to remember the route. Left? Right? Straight? A few times I get sidetracked and have to work my may back to familiar ground.
The fog gathers on my body like a sheet on a cartoon ghost. I pass a hand before my eyes to clear my vision. The white film breaks into rows of heavy droplets striping the world and shattering the lights into rainbow spheres.
Caution hardly seems to help and slowing down makes me worry about people coming up behind. Someone whizzes by and disappears into the night. I gently pick up speed, and it seems to be OK. I still have only that ten or twenty feet but the path appears steadily and I drop my eyes from the wall of white to that little patch of reality just in front of me. I read the details, searching for clues about where the road will go next, a broad curve, a sudden dip? I pick up speed, my confidence building.
Signposts swim out of the malaise, bold but indistinct until the last moment. They guide me toward higher ground and the narrow roads grow broader. I pick up speed.
I start to relax and enjoy the ride. Get a little cocky, maybe, in my ability to read that little patch of clarity. The path jogs suddenly left and I swing dangerously close to darkness at the edge of the road. I ride the brake hard. Loose gravel and sharp landings appear in my clear space, but I keep to the smooth path by inches, starting out slow again, mistrustful of the road, reading my few yards of visibility.
But the path continues to appear and now the fog is lifting a little, getting patchy. I meet clear spots where the lights are sharper and I see a little more. The way is broader here and I discover others traveling nearby, their lights merging with mine to bring a little more world into focus. Some fall behind, others rush on as soon as the fog thins.
Emergency lights ahead. One of my reckless companions missed a curve and landed in the darkness. That slows me a little, but the night is getting clearer now. The patches of heavy fog wash over me less frequently and worry me less. Sometimes I close my eyes through them. Just a moment and the air will clear again.
I pull out onto the high road, where the signs are larger and the path much wider. The fog still lingers but better guides map the path ahead. Finally I break out into a clear and glorious night with stars overhead and the broad, smooth road stretching off into the distance.
Now I have only the darkness to contend with, engulfing everything beyond the middle distance. The lights are sharper here but fewer and at times I have only my fellow travelers — stretching off in a ragged line — to suggest the lay of an unseen path ahead. Lingering streaks of fog still cling to my glasses, fracturing my world. But I can focus on the shape of the road now, see its edges sharp and bright against the dark.
I pick up speed. Tense, attentive, watching for sudden bumps or unexpected curves, feeling better about the whole thing, but knowing the fog could appear again at any moment. And even in the clear, it’s hard work. Exhausting. Exciting. Cold. Sometimes I just have to take a break and go for a ride on my motorcycle.
