What catches the eye is the antenna welded to the crash helmet. It supports a box of camera tricks: the rider is filming his journey, recording where he is going which will soon be where he has been.
High-speed tar, Gaudi shapes made by the crash barrier motion.
Flashing white stripes.
Let’s go back for a moment.The helmet – or crash hat as we once called them during a more rebellious period of our lives, is ball-shaped like a silvery planet. The world goes on inside. A core of brain and tissue. Optic nerves connected to the metal antenna connected to the satellite eye recording road.
Otherwise, either side of the obese black tyre, panniers bulky enough to carry a printed database of all the souls living in the kingdom.
And atop these black boxes with silver latches, black bin bags that
shimmer and morph in the airstream.
You’ll have to use your imagination here to decide what’s being carried in thosebags that make bike and rider look like some kind of strange insect.
A silver scarf trails over his shoulder.
It flaps like a dying bird, waves goodbye
as the bike vanishes into the metal horizon.
The strange road movie gone forever.Despatched to wherever.