This is now a standard sight on a Sunday in HB town centre. But I include it today more because of noticing the participant in the middle — one of those things you don’t see until uploading it to the laptop, later.
I am sure my day in Manchester was better than it was for the driver of this bike, lying at the junction of Princess Street and Whitworth Street, a place I walk past every time I go to work. So, seeing where the debris lay and knowing this junction and its patterns of traffic and pedestrians and stop/go signals, I suggest that this is what happened here — the bike was coming downhill, down Princess Street, as was its due, and the the car that it hit (bits of which were also scattered around), coming uphill, decided to turn right across its path. Shite driving therefore, lack of attention and care: at least the motorcyclist lived (I checked the story on the Manchester Evening News site), but that’s scant consolation I am sure.
Everyone grows up, even Hell’s Angels. Every Sunday there will be some motorcycle club or other relaxing in the square. This lot had better gear than most.
If you’ve been to Saigon you are surely aware that the dominant lifeform in the city is the motorcycle. There are hordes of them. They make crossing the road an act that takes definite courage and the permutations of humans and cargo that can fit on them beggars belief. I even saw one today with two people and a dog on it, I kid you not. I tried to get a shot of a horde in transit, but this one, of one of the many street-side motorcycle parks, seems also to sum up their sheer number quite well.
I assume that the camera (for some reason to do with techno-capitalist surveillance economies, etc. etc.) is keeping an eye on the fire exit, but the owner of this bike sure wants it looking after, as well….
From sunset in Turkey to sunrise the following morning in Tanzania. Taken from the back of the minibus into which I and seventeen of my fellow walkers were packed, on our ten-hour journey north to the Kilimanjaro region. No idea where we are at this point, so the records will have to show the location as “unspecified”, but the beautiful landscapes we passed through boded well for the walk to come.
I’ve lived in this house for over 10 years now and all that time the house across the road has been inhabited by this gentleman. And every Saturday morning he is out there working on his bike and listening to his ’60s music. And then on Sunday morning we are usually roused briefly from sleep at around 7am as it farts into life across the road and he heads off for whatever rally or off-road session he is visiting that weekend. He seems pretty happy. I’m ashamed to say I don’t know his name.
Postscript: It’s Richard.
Being 42 