I’ll give it to America, she knows how to do motorway flyovers–when suspended up there in the air, burning along the smooth concrete strip, it feels like you could be driving toward a city in a science fiction film.
There’s a great flyover south of Austin’s downtown; coming from the west you climb into the air, arc round to head north, and then gun it down the ramp to meet I-35 heading toward the bright lights of the city’s center.
You get a sense of America’s space and latent drama on those asphalt avenues when the going is good–a long way from the U.K.’s tight country lanes and gridlocked motorways.
A cold front is bearing down on the city, which was preceded by some viciously vivid hues swirling in the Texas sky at Sunday’s close as I drove home: it looked like a fair ground cotton-candy machine had burst across the blue canvas.
By the time I parked up, darkness had descended and that beautiful moment had been lost, like a single tear-drop in the rain…