HIRAETH [minsung]

8: Ride on the Highway to Heaven

The coal black motorcycle weaves it's way dangerously through the cars, earning honks and swears as it jets along faster than the speed limits whilst taking no notice of the marked lanes. The black and white dashes of the road fly beneath the small racer wheels which are screeching from the sheer speed and forces behind the small, quick turns.

Red flecks here and there gleam in the sun, the bulky but slim body looking stark and out of place on the motorway.

Sure, there are a few other motorcycles, one that is his friend.

But they aren't driving so recklessly and definitely not without a helmet on their heads.

The driver's hair is blown off his face in the exhilarating wind, his forehead showing and his eyes covered by a pair of sunglasses. He has some gum in his mouth, chewing it as leisurely as if he were walking and not playing a risky game with death.

His blazer and tie whip back, bunching at his sides as they're pushed back, leaving his white shirt on show that is untucked and even messier than when he put it on. It flaps up occasionally to show his tatted, scarred abs. His muddy, booted large feet stay on the peddles, slamming on the breaks when he wants to cut in front of a car daringly and then speed up again.

The sharp corners made cause the bike to tip to each side, leaning so far that the sides scrape over the road, creating sparks like lightening. The wheels cause tire burns in their wake, the bike tilting the opposite way of where it's driving to with squeaky sounds like sirens, music to the driver's pierced ears.

He races down the highway, zooming passed cars that are just trying to go about a daily life.

The growling sound of the engine, the wind and the car horns trying to convey the dangerous situation to the driver scream around him. The leather seat vibrates lightly under him, both he and the machine just as alive as each other.

He grips the handles tighter, a savage grin playing on his lips, gum between his teeth. He increases speed going into a narrow gap between two cars, and when he's passed them, he starts to lift the front of his bike.

The bike does a wheelie in the middle of the freeway, the front wheel lifting high up in the air whilst only driving on the back one.

The driver leans forward so he's parallel with his motorcycle, both pointing to the sky, his chest nearly touching the handles. His legs are extended so his back half is in no contact with the bike, only his hands and boots keeping him from plunging to the road and getting killed by the fast and heavy undersides of cars and lorries.

When he's got to the end of the road, he leans forward so the bike is in full contact with the tarmac whilst he remains extended in the air.

He crouches on the bike, hunched forward and head up, looping through the much more narrow and packed traffic than before, with a simple tilt of his hands.

He sits back and slows down, engine revving when his location comes in sight.

Taking a hand off of one of the handles, he brings it to his mouth to rid his lips of the gum, aiming it into a bin he whizzes by. He doesn't have to look back to know he threw it inside perfectly.

That hand goes into his pocket, letting the fingertips of his right hand do all the work of knitting through people he doesn't want to wait for until he's cruising through school gates.

He doesn't use the horn to alert people to get out the way, he simply lets the rowdy engine do it, knowing he would never hit anyone by accident. He's too good and his reflexes are too fast.

Some screech when they see a bike coming up behind them with no signs of slowing down, jumping to the side and pulling their friends with them. More stare in disbelief at the sight of the new person on a motorcycle, without any sort of protection anywhere, sunglasses on his face like he's at the park for a picnic.