As I rode into Ensenada, I had to keep reminding myself that it’s not over until the motorcycle is in the garage. And then it happened. White truck, in my lane, heading directly at me. This is how it ends? Everything slowed down and someone turned off the sound. I could see smoke from the truck’s skidding tires and I could feel the bike sliding sideways as if it were on glass. My last movement was almost instinctual–I tucked my elbow in from being struck by the side-view mirror on the truck and braced for impact. The panniers hit the rear door on the truck and my shoulder skipped off the window. I skidded into a lane of oncoming traffic, screaming profanities in my helmet and bizarrely aware that there was and OXXO store across the street—I hadn’t seen once since Loreto. It goes without saying that this event shorted out the warm glow if my entry back into the ‘world.’ I kept moving with acute eye on all the cars around me, in the rear-view mirror, passing through each intersection, until I pulled into a hotel that I would call home for the next few days. So, it’s not over, not even close, and the bike is not in the garage.