A true scalp is not only overtaking someone but leaving them stopped at a set of lights as you, who have clearly beaten the lights, pummels nothing but the open air ahead.
We all know ‘The Game’.
We may never have dared to speak of it or confess its power over us, but we’ve all heard its seductive voice whispering in our ears, daring us to chase that shaven-legged (like a girl) roadie though our lungs threaten to burst out of our chest. We’ve all been stung by its bitter laughter when the skinny kid on the slicked-up mountain bike dropped us when we weren’t really paying attention (though in our hearts, we know that was no excuse), but we’d be damned if we were going to let him get away with it.
Oh yes, we all know The Game.
Now The Game has a name and that name is ‘Silly Commuter Racing’, itself a hollow denial of the seriousness with which The Game is played. Mock if you will, but eventually you will come to realise that we do not play The Game, no The Game plays us.
In fear of pursuit
I press on into the gale