The cyclists bunched tightly together around the bend and Marcus hunched his shoulders low as he attempted to get into the groove of slipstreaming with the rest. The slight wind whipped around their ears and carried the whirring of the tyre tubes with it. The browing trees flashed by in the twinkling of the corner of the eye. Monotony was the acceptable factor in this game, as the racers strived to keep in time and in tune with the pace of every other rider in the pack. Like birds flying in formation, their windbreakers rustled in harmony alongside one another. Each cyclist making such slight adjustments in response to riders around them. The fluidity of the pack drove by the powerful force of the centre as well as the higher load of the lead at the front.
A well oiled machine moved swiftly down the road, up the hill, round the bend and via the highways. It sang in tune with the wind which blew side-on and created an echelon in the direction of the blow.
He looked permanently sun-kissed, with freckles and shabby hair. An appearance alsmost generally unkempt and an apartment that remained filthy for most of the year. He was neither here nor there and unrooted which eventually drew him off to the shores of Bali where he escaped the confinements of the office and the constraints of bankruptcy. To cope, he had drawn from the neck of the bottle many times to the point of no return. He was simply inept.
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