His course was straight, barreling down Harvard Street at a steady pace of 10 miles an hour. It was clear he was a true craftsman, keeping his legs pumping steadily to the rhythm of a Flo-rida song released not but 10 years ago. From his posture, it would be impossible to imagine anything could stop him until he reached his final destination, until suddenly his left arm flew up into a salute to the left, veering off the well-beaten bike lane into outgoing traffic, safe only due to their untimely halt due to a resolute and sudden stop light.

Our biker picks his way through the crowd of 2014 Hondas and 2021 Tesla's until he reaches a startling locus for a man of his caliber. The sidewalk. What could a man equipped with such wonderous tools be doing at a place for such morals, only protected against the harsh machines by a 6-inch ledge made of cement? He dismounts his device and adapts a foward stride not unlike that of the men around him.

Something has changed. He appears to have lost his bearings, nervously glancing to his left and right, as if he was looking for something long lost, but eventually his course once again becomes steady, heading purposefully down the walk with long, intentful strides to a tree. He glances around once more, as if he was complentating a matter of life or death, before sighing and diving into the chasms of his back pocket, looking for a ring of keys, most reserved for a different day, today he pourpousfully reaches for a key smaller than the rest. It has a black end, labeled with kryptonite. He withdraws a ushaped contraption from his former mode of transportation and penatrates the u with the key. In but one glance, his ship is securely fassened safely to the tree he once sought not long ago.

The man smiles fondly at his work, then turns back in his formar direction, but within moments his destination becomes evident.