I hop on the elevator after leaving the bike in the garage. It's about 38 degrees, and I'm full gear. The thermostat cable hangs down to my knees from under my shirt like a cybernetic umbilical cord. I punch the number for the first floor, and the pale eye on the control panel illuminates as the elevator door slides closed.
I get to share the ride with one of the building maintenance men. "Cold out there, ain't it?" He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coveralls and grins at me.
"Yup." I smile back. I can't say much else as my face is too cold. I laugh instead. "A Ninja. I ride a Ninja." The face shield of the helmet I'm carrying mists over with condensation.
"Mmmm, fast," he says. He lowers his head and sighs. "I ride old British bikes." He smiles at me again and not all his grin is joy. "I'm a glutton for punishment."
We both laugh. The elevator doors open, and we spill out into the lobby. We separate, both on foot.
2 comments:
I dont understand. Is there supposed to be some kind of moral or point or were u just bored?
No moral. No real point other than the fact that old British bikes are reknowned for having tremendous wiring problems among other complications. Despite the difficulties, many riders still lust over vintage British iron to the point of drooling.
Or maybe I was just bored. Thanks for stopping by.
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