I see myself as big V8 burbling and gurlging round town, plenty of grunt under the bonnet for a turn of speed but mostly I'm just iddling around like Baloo. Then another cyclist pulls out ahead and like a spirted thomson gazelle and bounds away from the junction. Deep down inside the oldest parts of my DNA a switch is flipped, a gentle roll of the shoulders, a ripple of fingers around handlebar, a quick shoulder check then a big rev, VROOM, couple of glug glugs then, clunk, into a speedy gear and VROOOOOOM, fully engage pistons, an imaginary head up display already has the gazelle in the cross hairs, the onboard CPU delves for some RAM and in an instant an all american voice tells me target is acquired and locked. There are now accompanying beeps like in the old submarine films to heighten the drama. My prey is oblivious to the silent assasin bearing down on them, I wonder briefly what its thinking now, I hope its last thoughts are worthy of being described as such.
With the forward facing hunters gaze locked, my peripheral vision is blurred now. I am now like a peregrine falcon, the approaching speed is amazing, eyes start to water, underwear may be moisening but not mine, the hearts pumping now, full chat in the engine room. Pedestrians are stricken with wonder and stare goldfish mouthed in marvel, whoooooosh, the prey is passed, more than passed, vanquished. I pass them with a 10 feet gap but they were still almost sucked into the slipstream, still going so fast, time is nearly warping. The preys heart sinks, they are reminded who owns this turf, the gazelle's effort was strong but today they wandered into the wrong part of the jungle, this strut off is won by the tiger in the smoking jacket, meow.
The proud tiger looks back, its prey is but a pinprick in the distance, a last victory rev then its back to glugging and cruising mode, thats one cool cat. Then a passing shop window reveals a darting reflection. SHATTER, the priceless ming vase is instantly in a million pieces and the true story is revealed, a translucent balding middle aged man, who clearly had to take a running jump to get into that lycra, hunched over an assortment of metal pipes with all the grace and beauty of Zelda from Terrorhawks. The tiger sized smoking jacket falls away to reveal a weasely figure that at best could be described as aerodynamic, in that it tapers from head and boney shoulders out slowly into a pear, he has sensitive upper thighs which must explain why he has grown a stomach shelf to protect the upper thigh from the elements. A pang of self conscious embarrassment sweeps over our hero, as he quickly turns off down a side street, vowing in mumbled mutterings under his breath not to return to the mirrored/reflective part of town ever again.
