I’ve never been one for riding motorbikes but enjoy some of the imagery and mythology that surrounds them.
The crowded narrow roads in and around the towns of the Côte d’Azur seem ideal for two wheeled travel.
Motorcycles, motorbikes, whatever you want to call them, whiz in and out the often stationary cars, vans and lorries.
Sat in a traffic jam, sweat running down my temples, despite the air conditioning, I envy the motorcyclist weaving between the people carriers and Ferraris.
On foot, in search of a certain bar and bread, the motorbikes become an annoyance. Their noise and smell. The fear that one will fail to see me in its weave and knock me over.
such short shadows
the baker asks the biker
to remove his helmet