The curves tighten.
The grass encroaches upon the asphalt.
The white lines rubbed nearly out of existence.
There is no passing lane.
There is no pull off.
There is no shoulder for bicyclists.
The switchbacks strain the car’s turning radius.
The guardrails absent themselves for the city.
The dark spots witness the old blood of road kill.
The engine strains at fourteen degrees incline.
The horizon goes on forever after leveling onto the mesa.