Ghosting and weaving into the dark future

My old silver bike broke at the front fork, after decades of faithful and reliable service, so I went to Bristol and bought a desirable new light greyish one, and set off across the dark city on a mission of visitation. The gears had not been adjusted at the shop, so I had only one gear with an embarrassing chain rattle, but apart from that, it was a dream. Cycled carefully (not used to Bristol) among the crowd of dangerous tin-ton motorised enclosed mad poisonous sinking quadricycles and stopped at a red light. A cyclist breezed by me, across the stopped traffic and off into the darkness. I set off after him. We floated noislessly along the ragged network of cycle/walkways across Bristol’s bombed out centre, and gathered another three or four or five comrades, ghosting and weaving along the ways, rarely stopping, just working the old forgotten lanes and paths, noislessly without effort, one sometimes leaving another sometimes joining, pushing together into the dark future of our lives, dark alleys picked out by scattered lights until one by one we peel off at our warm, hollow welcome home, leaving the never resting motors to their inevitable doom.