if you ride you know those moments when you have fed yourself into the traffic, felt the hashed-up asphalt rattle in the handlebars, held a lungful of air in a cloud of exhaust. up ahead there are two parallel buses. with cat's whiskers, you measure the clearance down a doubtful alley. you swing wide, outflank that flower truck. the cross-street yellow light is turning red. you burst off the green like a surfer on a wave of metal. you have a hundred empty yards of Broadway to yourself.
-chip brown-
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