Turning off the highway

The water ran dark as I washed my hair that night. In fact it was still pretty muddy-looking on the second shampooing. But a day spent blasting around the gravel roads of a disused quarry in a car with no side windows will do that.

Dust had billowed behind the spinning rear wheels, lingering like low-lying smoke from a small steam engine. The odd brush with a bush left speed streaks in the grime and there was the constant clatter of stones tumbling in the arches like prehistoric lottery balls. The sophisticated suspension worked hard, but you still felt the impacts and knew you’d had a workout when you stopped.