1984. It's a dark spring morning. I'm running the early IBM data sheet route for Pony Express. 30 pick ups spread across London.
At 4 am it's a heavy, low lying, foggy start to the day. The fog thickens as I leave central London heading west on the A40. It's a pea souper. The vestigial bikini windshield on my CX500 serves to compress and direct the moisture laden air on to my face shield. So much moisture in the air that my face shield is dripping. The soaking wet glove I wipe across my field of view leaves thick streaks of water.
As I approach RAF Northolt the illuminated globes of the short landing lights standing along the edge of the road shine brightly above the compressed fog. I realise that the swathe of fog is only about 10 feet tall and in some places my head is above the fog. I see the world as a fighter skimming the top of a cloud.
A loop of Pink Floyd plays in my head.
