An afternoon in Pilsen: The blast of gunning motors rumbles downstreet and catches me from behind. Riding my bicycle home from work, I don’t look back. The motorcycles have followed me, turning from Ashland west onto Blue Island, and now they seem to be gaining on me in bursts, lurching forward and backing down, the ripping treble of acceleration alternating with the bass expulsion of their exhausts.
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I can’t be in their way, riding as I am with the traffic. Yet I sense them locking onto me, like the head wind that defeats my hard pedaling. Finally, after another crescendo of power brings them only car lengths to the rear, I turn to see twin figures with bushy ZZ Top beards. One’s hair is flat beneath a black aviator cap; his companion’s long locks blow free in the wind. Lines of chrome studs traverse their slick-black outfits like a zodiac map. The goggles each wears are sci-fi, floating otherworldly above the chrome and black two-wheelers on my tail.
My breath is gone from fighting the wind. Casing the otherwise empty street, I catch sight of a clubhouse with more motorcycles parked in a row on the sidewalk. Now I stop staring at my escorts, afraid of punishment. Remembering the blade-on-wheels chariots in Ben Hur, I think how lucky I am to have a helmet on.
