The language of the arrows.

September 12, Elmhurst.

When we move at night I follow Fridman carefully for I've developed poor night vision these past few years. When it's raining I'm all but lost in fog, I don't see the arrows until they're right under my nose and it's too late - when I see them at all. He knows it and waits for me when, as it happens often in urban areas, I have to stop at a light and he drives on.
The arrows have their own language, I heard John Moss say once. They direct you along the way, they warn you and help you, they tell you when to slow down before a turn, they warn you of a rough stretch of road, a bumpy railroad crossing or a steep descent, and always they lead you, one arrow pointing ahead and you know you're on track. There is also the turns' language, when the arrows come in threes: first one arrow pointing left (or right) with two arrows pointing ahead, then two arrows pointing left (or right) with one straight, and finally three arrows pointing in one direction and you know you are to turn. Really it's easy. The difficulty arises out of their placement, as in Dixon when Fridman made a wrong turn left because the entrance was not clear between two streets, or when they are not completely visible until it is too late to veer off, especially with a tractor trailer.
Sometimes we pass arrows from other circuses; often we recognize them.