Before my Sunday afternoon ride, I mapped out a new route. Having ridden to the northwest so many times before, I looked southwest on the map. I picked a road that went to a familiar highway, that looked sufficiently challenging. It was one road, by name, but four different road numbers. Having never been on the roads, it was both technically challenging and mentally stimulating as I found my way. But, until I made it to Highway 15, a familiar north-south route, all I could do was focus on the ride. Deeply shadowed lanes carved through the woods, with sunlight blinking through to illuminate me as if I were at a 1970s disco. Curves over hills, where cars might approach unawares, challenged my line. Big rocks, little rocks, and tiny gravels from country driveways washed onto the road, requiring slight adjustments to that line. Every so often, a vista worth a photograph came into view. Silos standing proud, with the afternoon sun casting their shadow on the nearby barn. Green fields for acres around, bounded by classic white fences. And, as only a motorcyclist knows, the noteworthy aroma of, well, a farm, that lasts for a few seconds. My mind was cleared of distractions. My concerns were pushed to the corners of my mind, where from time to time they tried in vain to return. The mission I had created, to get to Highway 15, dominated my thinking and my actions.