My father, my mother and I are on a tiny motorcycle. My father's driving and then my mother is behind him and I'm perched on the end, rather precariously. We are traveling over the mountains to M City and I'm concerned that I don't have any gloves. My hands will get cold and hurt. Oh, well, I can stick them in my pockets, but I know I'm going to be uncomfortable. The road is gravel and my father hits the gas too hard and the cycle's front wheel lifts up. I yell, "Let off the gas," annoyed and a little scared. He does and we go on. I have to keep telling him, because he's a bad driver and I feel endangered. Dwight is there somewhere.