They glide like ghosts
In the morning mist
Exhaling their way through the streets
Creeping up on you
Catching you unaware

Spinning and weaving their magic
As they rattle your mind
It’s like you’re in a video game
And they, the reckless characters
Who seem to do with everything with such ease

But their bodies are real.
Solid,  slender and cold.
Grasshopper clicks
As they breathlessly hurtle past,
You try to catch them

But they slip from your grasp
Each working day
And each working night
They crop up beside you
And even unexpectedly
On those glorious weekends

Bloody cyclists.

Thoughts: I am a keen cyclist and I don’t know how to drive, but with some of the behaviour we cyclists exhibit, I can imagine that this is what some drivers think about us. 

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