Michael Gray

Before turning to the band and telling them to play loud, launching into a ferocious rendition of Like a Rolling Stone.

Before long, Dylan is physically and emotionally exhausted.

Burned out from releasing seven albums in four years and the associated relentless touring schedule, he retreats to his home in Woodstock, New York.

One day in the middle of summer, he attempts to blow away the cobwebs on the open road.

It is the morning of July the 29th, 1966.

With the remote tree lined road unspooling in front of him like a dark ribbon, Bob Dylan rides low over the handlebars of his Triumph Tiger motorcycle.

Sarah's car follows not far behind, but even so, this feels like a rare moment of solitude.

There is no crowd, no flashing cameras, no one waiting to ambush him.

Just the freedom of the road and the glimpses of sky breaking through the canopy.

The only sounds are the steady thrum of the engine and the rush of wind tearing past his ears.

Dylan's hair lifts and falls with the rush of the air flying by.

When he glances into the mirror, his face is pale and pinched.

There are shadows beneath his eyes, deepened by weeks of travel and too many sleepless nights.

Gripping the handlebars, his long fingers are stained with nicotine.

The engine's pitch shifts, working harder now as the road begins to climb.

The asphalt is uneven here, cracked and littered with loose grit.

Heat rises off the surface in faint ripples.

Then, through a sudden break in the trees, the morning sun bursts through.

For a split second, Dylan is blinded by the glare, and he squeezes the brake in response.

The rear wheel locks, and the Triumph shudders violently.