Mortal Adventure

Driving west down the 105, I hear, before I see through my rear view mirror, a gang of about 15 motor bikers  approaching. Scattered throughout the Freeway, they are passing us vehicle drivers one by one—demanding attention—bringing with them an air of bondage, freedom, fury, and passion—the Valkyries have unleashed.

As they pass me by, the engine roars fading out and cueing in, I notice their uniform red leather jackets, bearing the same insignia on the backside. I am driving on the far left, next to the carpool lane.

One of the bikers slows down at about my one o’clock. Immediately I notice his cut torso under his t-shirt, his golden tan, and dirty blond hair. His rightt hand is on the handle, and the left one fist-ed, resting on his thigh. He turns and looks at me—scoping out the driver of my convertible white BMW. He is not wearing a helmet, his shiny goggles shielding his eyes.

He does a double take, then looks back at his gang, sending a head signal. With an outstretched arm, he cautions and slows me down, chaperoning the entrance of his ring. The entire scene is way cool and hot! Little do I know what I am in for.

They have claimed ownership of the freeway, along with everyone’s attention. Three bikers pass me by one after another, at warp speed, and move into my lane. The fourth one glides in front of me, 10 feet ahead. He lifts the bike up into the air— vertical— and rides at 80 mph on one tire, for a good 80 seconds, if not more.

It bites me to the bone . . . I am frozen. So mortally excited I start to pray. My entire attention locked on the rider. I am, with all my being, my will and my soul, holding and protecting him from falling down. I am bemused! In complete prayer for life, for his life.

I slow down, increasing the distance between us, calculating the how, and how fast I have to maneuver, should he fall off his bike and offer his life into my hands. The biker to my right follows through—he lifts the bike vertical, then lifts both his feet up onto the seat, and as if that is not dangerous enough, he lifts both his legs up into the air, forming a V—a victorious face off to life, and death.

Perspiration is dripping down my temple as I glide through traffic on this hot California afternoon towards the exit, barely missing it. As I exit the freeway, I take one last look and admire one last lift-off into oblivion.

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COLOURS OF THE CÔTE D’AZUR

I’m walking down the street in Monte Carlo… the big blue sea sparkling its harmonious melody.

The afternoon summer breeze lifting my hair, penetrating my soul with the glow of pink and orange sunset hues.

A sailor tips his hat, nodding his head- paying homage to my viral femininity. His eyes sway to the click of my heels, for what seems like an eternity.

I’m wearing Chanel No. 707 on my fingertips, and 507 on my lips.

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