Adrenalineless Life

Every afternoon chunks of lethal metal spill onto the city, and they're all mad at each other. The evening commute can be frustrating behind the wheel, nose to nose in traffic. But here I find escapism, next to Sat Navs telling poor people to take the next left towards ludicrous APR. Here I find adrenaline, aside the rich who fart into leather seats that they love more than their wives. My bicycle peddles are my window of life, away from days reserved at a desk and nights of undeserved rest.

That is, unless I turn left. If I don't, then I power ahead into the cycle lane, passing Ubers who are stuck up each other's asspipes. I feel the wind in my face as I dart by cars crawling in some slow motion notion. A bus pulls in. A look goes over the shoulder and an arm goes out, as I overtake something 10 times my size. It feels good. I know where the potholes are so I can avoid them with dexterity. Some piece of shit wants to take me on the outside. I humour him past me, but his foot's soon off the gas and at the mercy of the fucker in front of him. They all want to be me, or I think they want to be me. I don't care which.

Turning left avoids the traffic. It's the same distance home, but it's via empty side roads that aren't exactly captivating. Sometimes I turn left, and I do so for three reasons:

1) It's raining 2) I've been drinking 3) I'm depressed

At worst it's three, today it was just number 3.

I've nothing to get home for.