Here in Chicago, motorcyclists don’t bother with crash helmets in general. They love to cruise around on massive, low riding beasts, their arms are curved up to the height of their ears to grip their handlebars. Arms bowed like the legs of a cowboy, his firm, gentle hand easily dominating the fierce steed. With a slight twist, the machine growls; the saddled mans hands, wrists, arms tighten, he pulls with his chest and is carried comfortably forward on the wide wheels.
The decorative leather tassels on the handle bars flow in the wind, dancing like the rider’s rough, salt and pepper beard, past rippling tattoos of symbols of power. Music blares out like a flag, to let all the passers by know.
And the fanfare of this knight of the road.
Is James Blunt.