The motorcycle bumped its way along the poorly paved road, its plastic fenders rattling. I sat on the back of the tape-patched seat, my arms around Rafael’s waist. We’d been trying to pass a poultry truck for some time now, but its driver was barreling along at loco speeds and refusing to let us by. I wondered what his hurry was. The chickens stuffed into the wire cages strapped on the flatbed of the truck smelled terrible and the heavy wheels of the vehicle were churning up dust like crazy every time the driver cut a corner too tightly and veered onto the gravel shoulder of the road. I was glad for my breather, which kept out the worst of the dust and diesel fumes. Wearing it meant not being able to wear the full-face helmet that had come with the bike, but I was more than willing to sacrifice safety in order to breathe filtered air and feel the wind through my hair.