You see weird things driving... I've never understood log trucks. Sometimes you'll be out on the highway, you see two big giant trucks loaded up with logs, and they pass each other on the highway... I don't understand that. I mean, if they need logs over there... and they need 'em over there, you'd think a phone call would save 'em a whole lot of trouble.
Fiction writers come up with some interesting metaphors when speaking of plot. Some say the plot is the highway and the characters are the automobiles. Others talk about stories that are "plot-driven," as if the plot were neither the highway nor the automobile, but the chauffeur. Others seem to have plot phobia and say they never plot. Still others turn up their noses at the very notion, as if there's something artificial, fraudulent, contrived.
James N. Frey
I don't ride a sport bike. If I'm riding a sport bike and trying to do tricks, and going 200 miles down the highway, that's probably pretty stupid. But when you're riding a Harley or a chopper, and you're riding with a group of people and you're not on the highway and you're cruising, you're relaxing.
Normal people, who grow up with compassion, never amount to anything. They're the ones who end up gluing those little dots on the highway. Or, putting glue on the dots for the guy who glues dots on the highway. Screwed up people, who weren't coddled or raised with compassion, we get stuff done. Sure, we feel a little alone and abandoned, but, we're... very... happy. Why can't you love me, daddy?
once I realized that Australia's top highway speed of 110 kilometers per hour was the same as going 65 in the U.S., all my hardened American enthusiasm for speed went limp until it felt like the car was hardly moving at all. Even worse, most stretches of the highway are restricted to 60 kilometers per hour, which is how fast Americans go when we're, like, passing a stopped school bus disembarking small children, or driving through a herd of puppies in the road.
Our group pressed west on what was left of Highway 93, toward the pass leading to Las Vegas. Sand covered the road in loose drifts so deep the horses' hooves sank into them. The metal highway signs were bent low by the strong wind, and above us, billboards that once screamed ads for the casinos were now stripped of their promises of penny slots and large jackpots. The raw boards underneath were exposed, like showgirls without their makeup. Some signs had been blown over completely and lay half-buried under mounds of sand, like sleeping animals. Cars dotted the highway, their paint scoured off and dead tumbleweeds caught underneath them. Their windows were fogged with death, and despite my effort not to look, my eyes were drawn to the blurred images of the still forms inside. I tried to concentrate on the dark road ahead of us instead.
I WANNA HAVE ME A MOTORCYCLE TO TAKE ME ON DOWN THE ROAD A RAT-BIKE MADE OF HARLEY PARTS OR A NORTON COMMANDO THEN MEET ME ON THE HIGHWAY WE'LL TAKE ANOTHER RUN ON DOWN THAT FINAL STRETCH OF BLACK-TOP BEFORE THE GRAVEL TAKES BACK THE GROUND ONCE I SAW THE BAT-MOBILE IN A LAS VEGAS CASINO MUSEUM AND I ASKED THE MAN COULD I DRIVE IT AND HE SAID WELL YOU SEE SON THIS CAR AIN'T GOT NO WORKS IT WAS BUILT JUST FOR SHOW AIN'T THAT JUST LIKE LIFE THAT'S THE WAY A LOT OF US GO THEN MEET ME ON THE HIGHWAY WE'LL TAKE ANOTHER RUN ON DOWN THAT FINAL STRETCH OF BLACK-TOP BEFORE THE GRAVEL TAKES BACK THE GROUND I WANNA BE LIKE BIG DADDY GARLITZ IN A BLOWN GTO ON I-90 IN THE EARLY MORNING SUNLIGHT WITH NO ONE ON THE ROAD BUT ME THEN MEET ME ON THE HIGHWAY WE'LL TAKE ANOTHER RUN ON DOWN THAT FINAL STRETCH OF BLACK-TOP BEFORE THE GRAVEL TAKES BACK THE GROUND I WANNA HAVE ME A MOTORCYCLE TO TAKE ME ON DOWN THE ROAD A RAT-BIKE MADE OF HARLEY PARTS OR A NORTON COMMANDO THEN MEET ME ON THE HIGHWAY WE'LL TAKE ANOTHER RUN ON DOWN THAT FINAL STRETCH OF BLACK-TOP BEFORE THE GRAVEL TAKES BACK THE GROUND
As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon like a leaky boat. Well, except for that fact that boats are not generally round, orange and on fire. Hmm. Come to think of it, in no way whatsoever did the sun, in this instance, resemble a leaky boat. My apologies. That was a dreadful attempt at simile. Please allow me to try again. As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon like a self-luminous, gaseous sphere comprised mainly of of hydrogen and helium.