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  • While the bicycle riders sit inside the sushi joints and organic emporia, the pubs and off-track betting salons, and the cine docs and war vets libate a couple brew, while the blow out artists give the ladies' hair dryer arms a rest, while the creeping sidebar back-to-school-sales' frenzied chipmunk sounds on the sidelines of summer begin----the bikes are pooped. Plop City.

    "Momma, I've had the biscuit," the bike on the street seemed to say. "Can you get me one of those nice apple butterscotch scones from the bake shop? Or how about that five hour energy drink? My spokes are done, my handles cannot ramble, I am collapsed in the centre of town. Walk me home, Momma, after that California Roll or that pint of stout. Park me in the hammock, it's August still, give your hot bike some of that isn't it supposed to be, 'Summertime and the livin' is easy...'?"

    (Photo by Susan)
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