I'm riding with the wind at my back
And no way of seeing where I'm going.
There's a fog all around me,
Swirling around my face,
As thick as cold soup,
And as warm as a glass of port.
I can't see how fast i'm going.
I know I'm on a road.
I can still feel the tires
Rolling along the tarmac.
There are bumps now and again.
I adjust the helmet
Which I can feel on my head.
I pull on the gloves protecting my hands
Tugging like a child on his mother's dress;
Looking for some security.
And then there's a sound
Like a shot going off
Through the smog,
Which softens the harshness of the noise.
But before I can put it to mind
And let it sit there to be pondered
As to what might have made such a noise
In such a fog, I find the answer.
I am flung forward as the front wheel
Discontinues its smooth, flowing contact with the road.
I'm suspended in the air for a long time.
I am blind but for the greenish mist
Which engulfs me.
I cannot even say if I am moving up or down,
Forwards or backwards,
Or if i'm moving at all.
Of course, before I can find any pleasure
In the sensation of flight, I get my answers.
I was moving forwards. Head first. I was high in the air.
I was still facing downwards when I hit the wall.
The red bricks splintered through the old helmet,
The crush of brick on bone was dulled
By the awful, swirling fog.
It took me a long time to hit the floor.
The wall had not managed to knock me unconscious,
So again, I found myself hanging in the air.
Of course, this time I wasn't hanging.
This time I knew where I was going.
What direction I was headed.
What was waiting for me at the bottom.
But I was still surrounded by the fog,
Which had turned a deathly red,
And couldn't see the ground I was heading towards.
Even after the final impact, I couldn't see it.
When they found me, they said that I was lucky
To have survived the ordeal.
But I can't help but wonder;
Wouldn't I have been luckier,
If it had ended when I hit the wall?
