Lasy year I had occasion to drive across western Colorado at night in a 22-foot diesel truck. No lights whatsoever except my headlights and those of the rare pa

Lasy year I had occasion to drive across western Colorado at night in a 22-foot diesel truck. No lights whatsoever except my headlights and those of the rare passerby. Pitch black. When it's that dark, you lose your spatial sense. A single light approached me, and I realized a motorcycle was driving at me head on. I swerved to avoid it, and the motorcycle changed direction to continue heading for me. When I swerved again, it was too much, and the truck began fishtailing and rocking back and forth laterally. I was sure I was going to tip it. It would have been an utter disaster, especially since I had no cell service out in the middle of nowhere. As I brought it to a stop, it teetered one last time and almost tipped—then finally, dramatically, landed safely on all wheels. There was no motorcycle. The lights from the occasional car way off in the distance had merged together into a single light that appeared brighter, and therefore closer. The cars weren't even on the same road; as they rode around a bend the headlights had, in the utter void that I found myself in on these Colorado backroads, created an optical illusion. After that night I resolved never to drive in darkness like that again.