They pull over to give me room if they can. When they can’t, because of oncoming traffic, I am sucked into their draft before being dropped once again into the furious wind.I have to work to keep the bike from being thrown into the ditch.
The remoteness and openness of this part of the world make cars a survival requirement. It is fifty miles to hardware, food, and car parts.
I don't mind the remoteness though. I like it that way. I can't live for long in a city. The air here is clean, the sun clear and hot, the wind incessant. But the car thing... that's a burr under my bike shorts.
I know that soon I will be mobile again, back in the company of engine operators, but today I am free to brush against the elements, to breathe directly the scent of pinon and diesel fumes. The contact is direct, honest, and unforgiving.