Roadkill
Hallie Pritts
I left my house in Pittsburgh and rode to and through the Colorado Rockies, a hobo bicycle trip, with my boyfriend, 1,600 miles, give or take. It was no spandex-clad, carbon fiber endeavor. It was a stealth-camping, dumpster-diving, zero-budget journey across the continent. Along the way, we encountered dead animals, 1,600, give or take.
Our territory was beyond the white line, the edge of road. If we were lucky, a foot or two of blacktop to skim along. The painted line gave some impression of safety, though a car wouldn’t even feel a jolt crossing it. It was …