Gone

I can feel it already. It's forty-four and a half hours until I'll fire up the truck and point it up the highway, but the thought of it has me on a high.

Two hours of my own space, just me and the 351 and the cold air. I know every bit of that highway like the back of my hand - I must've driven twenty thousand miles on it in the last ten years. It passes by in an instant, and then you're dropping down in to the still air at the bottom of the valley, carving up the curves near the river, the spotlights throwing light way up in to the trees.

Bring it on.