13SEVEN AND A HALF miles east of town, Sunday, 13 September 1970—It was very warm, very dry, dusty. In the ditches along the road’s edge Queen Anne’s lace bloomed to eight inches across. There was the smell of wheat, the smell of road-kill, of exhaust from two Kenworths pulling tandem rigs, of hot motor oil from the Harley, of his own sweat. The ride in had been fast, roaring through the night and into the dawn, moths and beetles splattering against the headlight and handlebars, forks and every front-facing surface they could possibly smash against. Oil had been seeping for weeks—typical Harley—but with dawn catching him from behind, a line or gasket had let go and hot oil had blown out, then back against his legs, boots, the cylinder heads, exhaust pipes, panniers. He’d stopped, fiddled,
