A Horse Named Sorrow

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92 22 Each morn­ ing out on the road I’d rise not long after the sun, mov­ ing about ­ quickly in the cold, climb­ ing into my ­ sweat-dried, stiff­ en­ ing­ shorts and ­ salt-stained Red Hot Chili Pep­ pers ­ T-shirt. Then I’d get Jimmy up and tie him on the han­ dle­ bars, ­ quickly pack the sleep­ ing bag, mount my hum­ ble ve­ hi­ cle, and move out from what­ ever camp­ ground I’d found in ­ search of a diner, where I al­ ways or­ dered the same thing: pan­ cakes. They al­ ways came in ­ stacks of three, just like ­ wishes in a­ church. Every­ thing a trin­ ity. I clung to the magic I knew. Which­ pancake’s the ­ father? Which the son? And which the holy ghost? The king­ dom of car­ bo­ hy­ drates; their power; and the glory of how far they could take me each day—one hun­ dred miles. All of which led to me to say­ ing grace and a ­ prayer for the souls of Jimmy Keane, James Owen Blake, and my ­ wounded ­ mother. Take this cup of cof­ fee, I’d mut­ ter, hoist­ ing it to my ­ chapped lips. And then I’d douse the of­ fer­ ing in syrup—three super­ sized eu­ char­ ists, amen. I ­ crossed my­ self, and ­ bolted them down. ...