I have a confession. I am in love with the number eight.
Right now some of you are shouting whatever at your screen about me and the number seven. I have to wonder why you shout at the robot runs your life. But anyhoo. Sevens are sacred; I’m completely composed-of and perpetually consumed-by sevens; I have little choice in the matter. Seven? It’s like self… or family. But eight? Eight is a friend… or a lover. Eight is an infinity of infinities. Seductively symmetric. Electrically even. Two cubed, yo.
This love of eight has risen up against my hatred of freeway/highway/expressway traffic. Specifically it’s actually rising while I’m actually riding on Interstate Highway 8. Eight is my personal Radio Raheem, helping LOVE ko HATE.
As I ride on this road — the sole road across this part of the desert — it becomes a pair of Spike Lee-directed four finger rings. Interstate 8 has its moments; by the end, I accept it all and enjoy most of it. Thank you 8. It didn’t hurt as much as they said it would. And I hope it was good for you too. But I have to go now, as your merge into another Interstate road. The famous 10. We have not yet ridden Interstate 10, just yet. The section picking up at 8’s terminus is prohibited to cyclists. I suspect we will be on that one sometime soon though. Maybe later we can have a talk about the letter X.