Last night as the the cloying, moist air wrapped itself around the cathedral, swirling in the floodlights and turning the angel on top into a ghostly apparition, something began to stir. It wasn't evil, it wasn't malicious, it was no less dangerous though, and its effects charged the air with an uneasy energy. A lone cyclist appeared over the brow of the hill, two bright lights stabbing their white beams into the murk, mist swirling back over his shoulders as he exhaled in the cold, wet air. Cycle and rider picked up speed, his form crouching low on the dropped handlebars of his old steed. He swished through a left hand corner at the bottom of the hill, leaning in at speed, making fast smooth progress through the night. Paris, 1860 - a Frenchman named Etienne Lenoir patented the first practical gas combustion engine and two years later drove a car based on the design from Paris to Joinville. This event is commonly believed to have spawned the first generation of Moton, however, as will be explained further down this passage, Motons are strange, unpredictable creatures, and as such lay dormant for a number of years after their spawning. As automobiles became more advanced, and more accessible more and more Motons were spawned, some estimates range as high as one Moton per motor vehicle, an astonishing 800million in 2003. Motons live in motorvehicles, but take no form, relying instead on infecting a host in order to wreak their havoc. Motons can hunt in packs, or alone, and do not seem to be governed by any need to feed - as far as current research can tell, they take control of their host at random, in order to put cyclists and pedestrians and even other road users at risk. The Moton struck just as the cyclist was leaning into the next corner. The driver, slack jawed and glassey eyed appeared to look directly at the cyclist, but the Moton controlling the human had removed the unwitting human's speed perception. Hard subliminal messages told the human to accelerate out of the turning; the Moton ruling the human as easily as as a puppetmaster manipulating his helpless dolls. An outraged bellow pierced the humans unconciousness, momenterily shaking off the hold of the Moton. He braked and stopped directly blocking the cyclists path, there was little the cyclist could do but straighten up and brake. He managed to swerve behind the car, but could not stop before he was swallowed by a large conifer. The revving engine disapearing into the night told the cyclist that the Moton had regained its hold on the driver and they were now speeding through the night with the same brain function as 30 year old cannabis addict. There was little the cyclist could do but brush the vegetation from his person and machine, and continue on his journey to work. The next morning the same cyclist and bike were turning a brisk pace on their way to university, for those in the know the cyclist was holding a primary position in an effort to defend himself from Moton attack. When he reached the large roundabout he signalled clearly, performed his lifesaver and attacked the corner. The road was dry as a bone and he leant right over, cornering as if on rails, until from his left came a car. Its tyres screaming like a banshee it narrowly missed the cyclist who had grabbed his brakes and come to a halt slightly further round the RAB, as he turned back the driver leapt from their vehicle. Face choleric with impotent rage, they began to shout at the cyclist. Threats of violence, deeply knowledgable insights into the Highway Code topped off with well rounded opinons on the cyclists nerve to use the road instead of the shared path. Stunned, the cyclist could think of no retort, and simply turned away with a shake of the head. The slamming of the car door galvanised the cyclist, who accelerated off the roundabout and swept through the corner into the sanctuary of the university. This chap, being an experienced cyclist took a moment to quietly curse cyclomathmatics as he locked his cycle, before wondering when the third Moton attack would present itself. In many walks of life events happen in sequences of three, though in cycling this is a virtual law that is rarely broken. Crashes, punctures, Moton attacks, mechanicals, they all happen in fatalistic series of three, it is a rare cyclist who bucks this trend. He knows not when the next Moton will strike, but he knows that they will. The wait begins... Bloody Motons, I didn't even get a SMIDSY. !