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February 3, 2002
Every day starts the same. Four cylinders screaming. Gasping for oxygen, fuel and fire. Sputtering out some toxic fumes. Me, cursing the on-ramp, the hill I’m climbing and the truck, with his brights blinding my eyes and his rig storming up behind me.

“Kiss my ass”. Kiss my bumper. Make my day.

Cup of coffee in my crotch and the soon-to-be rising sun. It’s not daybreak, but it’s clearly getting lighter ahead of me to the East and still pitch black in my rearview mirror. It used to be the claustrophobic path of Storrow Drive and now it’s the 134.