salt wind death

Riding north across the golden gate bridge it is evening, the notorious bay fog thick against my face sheild, I pull my lips into my mouth and count seconds in minutes as I pray to an unknowable god. Pusing north passed the bridge the fog thickens and the wind grabs me and pushes me into the next lane. I can't manuever my motorcycle. I slow to a crawl and pray that the concrete is not too wet and that the slide across the lanes will be limited. I count my breaths inhale, exhale, inhale. Crouched low over my tank to limit the impact and reduce my size I aim for the rainbow tunnel. Dinner is in my throat as I enter the tunnel. I hear my riding companion's harley behind me which is good because I can't sit up to check my mirrors and make sure that he's upright and alive. The fog and wind double leaving the tunnel and I know that I am alive and my heart and my throat and my hands tighten into being.