Tom Foran Clark

Pike and Emery checked out of the Locanda Bellavista the next morning, loaded up their bikes, and rode out of Messina. Everywhere were palm, olive, and tangerine trees. They rode along the coast, traveling to the Torre de Faro tip, where they lost sight of the mainland. They headed for the hills. They rode through Barcellona all the way to Capo di Orlando, where they pitched their tent that night. In the morning, they rode to St. Agato di Mitello, then on to St. Stefano.

Further along, two motorcycle cops roared down on them. Emery figured they'd got an all-points bulletin. Soon their cards and letters would all bear an Italian prison postmark. But no, the two officers only wanted to look at their bikes and gear and have a good laugh. They suggested Pike and Emery really ought to be riding motorcycles, not bikes.

They rode to the lofty pyramidic crag of Sciara, then all the way to Palermo, arriving even as the Carducci pulled into the harbor. They got their tickets and went on board. The boat went out. The two stood on deck and watched the lights recede. Emery was going to comment on the beauty of the water and the lure of Africa ahead, but he changed his mind. Just then he didn’t feel a need to say anything -- not to Pike or to anybody else.