I rode down the nicest street, on my way home. It was lined with oak trees. Large maple-like leaves rested in golden heaps. A ute drove beside me for a moment then slowed and pursued me. I became aware of myself, a rare vulnerability. I changed sides. Looked back. They pulled over. They had not been following me, after all.

I came to the end of the street where a gentleman without a helmet rode past me on the main street. He had right of way, no helmet and carried a sandwhich, roll or something like that in his left hand. The foil was rolled down, bright little creases reflected the street lights. He had dark sandy blonde hair that suck up on end. With only one hand for balance on the handle-bar he took a bit.

I’d been holding off commenting to people all throughout the evening ride. I didn’t say ‘good work’ to the runners I passes. I had only said thanks to two separate families. One picked up their dog as I passed, the other told his daughter to stop.
‘Thanks’ Is all I said.

As this night rider passed by, I jokingly -I think it was jokingly- said, ‘Sick’.
He didn’t make eye contact but rode past. The intersection was a confusing one. For anyone out of town, they’d have been surprised to find that in a car they would have to follow this gentleman as he came along right to left, approaching one of the larger hills in Hobart. As he reached the hill, he took his only hand off the handlebars and put them both in the air. The perfect hero pose. Celebrating his rouge behaviour, a young larrikin. Bull horns and a half-foiled bun, raised to the sky in reverence to nothing in particular but a bubbling comment i’d been holding onto for far too long.