Here and There

A Story by Montipy

A small sketch inspired by an adrenaline-full bike ride, one of the very first.

It was a quiet Saturday eve. Sleepy automobiles, tired of the burning sun and endless traffic jams, were slowly crawling on the avenue. There was no honking, no hissing of the tires on the pavement. Just the tired calmness of the exhausted vehicles.

People, alone and in companies, some happy and some not quite so, some young and some old, mothers with kids, hot tanned chicks in short denim skirts, teens on roller blades, couples with ice-cream - all different, all preoccupied with their own stuff. Just the usual setting for this place at this time of the year and at this time of the day. Just a casual evening stroll, having nothing else to do on a summer Saturday eve. It is actually good for the health, strolling in the evening, having some fresh air, even if in the center of a congested city, even if in the stuffy and dusty summer evening. Why not a perfect end for the day?!

And sometimes everything changes in a split second. Suddenly everyone - every single one! - turns the head in one direction, in the direction where there is less and less air and harder and harder to breathe.

The air cannot remain undisturbed there - it is being penetrated by HID lights. It is being torn into two strips, just as an old curtain. One strip - up, and the other - to the ground. It is being torn by front fairings… ruthlessly… inflicting brutal wounds, which the atmosphere will heal for a long time afterwards, moaning and suffering. The air that is vital to all living burns away on break discs. As huge mixers, the spokes of cast alloy rims stir it. The poor air is being ripped by the chains and sprockets.

Perfect machines with furious roaring swallow the oxygen into the burning craters of their ever-hungry cylinders, just to spit out the leftovers with the low-pitched howling of the exhaust a moment later. And then swallow again, hurriedly, choking and spitting blue fire, stumbling briefly but continuing to swoosh away their masters.

Everyone looks in the direction of the horizon, where the strip of blinding fire is born, this improper, untimely dawn. In the direction where little dot quickly spills into the garland of powerful headlights, where the torn air whistles astonishment and fear, magic of high speeds and breathtaking accelerations. Gravity yields. They will live in memories of the surrounding people as a blurred shot of colorful lines and roaring of exhaust pipes. Overwhelming the sleepy hollow around with their speed, they fly by. They, who cannot bear living at speeds of a snail on a downhill. They, who count the days and weeks of their lives next to figures 120…150..200…, first…second…third… They, who are not like ordinary people.

“Suicidals” some say from the crowd, but still look in the same direction as everyone else.

“They should be shot!” say others, with apparent anger, but they also look in the same direction as everyone else.

“Are they not scared?” exclaim the others, their eyes focused on the same world of short time, adrenaline explosions, loud clinks of changing gear, crazy revolutions and savage roaring of motorcycle engines.

Here everything is clear. Here eyes can capture landscapes and portraits. Here “fast” is when you can’t catch something running. Here “wind” is when the hair gets messed up. Here “to make it in time” means to arrive with everyone else.

It is all different there. The space merges into a single tunnel, the eyes only catch sudden changes in the surrounding. Everything that moves with small speeds just freezes. Everything around is perceived with one purpose - to assess whether it is a hazard on the way or not. Every few seconds (lasting so long there) - glimpse on the cardiogram of the iron heart: third…eleven…140…

Back to the outer world… the traffic light illuminates deep red… spring up from behind the windshield - and sudden frantic blow of the wind takes the breath away for a moment… squeeze breaks… The world, leaning slightly back, slows down and takes up regular shapes.

Chaotic thoughts… “Darned traffic lights!” Slight itching in the wrists… Twist of the throttle " and the engine happily responds “woooouu!!!” and short impatient pull of the bike… first… bursting acceleration… wildness of sounds… the tunnel of the universe… “fourth…ten…160…”

The street that was tranquil a second ago explodes with roaring of the exhausts reflected from the buildings in unison. In another second - just a ruby gleam of back lights at distance, raised dust and the stabilizing atmosphere shaking with convulsion from the turbulence. And everything is back to normal. Just the usual setting for this place at this time of the year and at this time of the day. Just a casual evening stroll, having nothing else to do on a summer Saturday eve. It is actually good for the health, strolling in the evening, having some fresh air, even if in the center of a congested city, even if in a stuffy and dusty summer evening…