We came and went at night. Four street cameras on every block. The Beautul Authority had insisted. We could fuck up their whole process by adding new colors to new helmets, and magic marker zigzaggs on the zigzaggs. Punk. Andrew had missed punk. Pity. We bought twelve at a time. Used. Beat up. New. Just enough helmets to appear differently every few minutes. We had arrangements with law abiding citizens who would throw us the new ones, and we would throw the ones we had been wearing back at these good samaritans, we never had to get off the bike. That way, there was not enough lag time between video cameras and bikes that did nor appear to be the digital bikes the programs were searching for. If time was not an issue, we’d switch drivers.

Time is always an issue.

Time smells like a quantum seed turning spit through pale carriage riders from the black past timidity of bait. The Porsche (not mine) was hot to drive, but shit to sleep in. Changing gears like cranking grind promising abduction. We came and went at night. We could barely believe that the Beautiful Authority did not not have cameras everywhere. I had made such films before, but I got paid for it. Now, we were the horses running rivers through the sodden hills. 

We were always mixing up helmets to add to other zigzagg stunts we pulled to stay off the radar screens. We would have worn tin foil hats if we had had to. I knew we were taking to long at all the ATMs. But I knew how to quicken up up It was quiet at night. The Porsche (not mine) smelled of leather and dick.