I rolled up to the red light. She was waiting.
Track stand. No wobble. Positioned at the front of queuing cars. Ready.
She rode a fixie. Her hair was done up tight. Her light blue frame was slim and cool blue. No helmet. Slender fingers wrapped around up-bars covered in brown grip tape.
Her hips were thrust out. Maybe for balance, maybe not. They said, clearly,
Yeah? What you got?
The lights changed. I set off after her but only for a fleeting moment: she was turning right. Nipped out before a van, and then was gone.
I carried on and marvelled. The very dust kicked up from her departing rear wheel oozed cool.