Secret Road rash. Black gravel pocks flesh, skin grows over the unscrubbed map. Embedded in the soul, grit scrapes against life force, razored open, it must seep its truth before being swabbed clean. Fling the gravel into the pit, climb back on the bike, a tender pedal forward on a familiar but changed road with the wisdom that the smart of a fall is nothing compared to the granite silence, of victim’s or inflictor’s untold words, black gravel under the skin of the soul. Makes sweet the gift of glide and the unmarbled flesh of reckoning.