and even then he had been far enough gone to think there was something supernatural about it , that the cycle would right itself , rise out of its grave , and chew him up ... either that or he would look back one afternoon at the rising sound of an engine and see his cycle , this damned cycle which would n't just stall out and die decently , roaring straight down the highway at him , doing eighty , and bent over the handlebars would be that dark man , that hardcase , and riding pillion behind him , with her white silk deckpants rippling in the breeze , would be rita blakemoor , her face chalk white , her eyes slitted , her hair as dry and dead as a cornpatch in the wintertime .