'Clunk!' the garage door rises.

A figure dressed in black leather stands grinning at his machine.

Key in the ignition, choke on and he fires it up.

One hundred horses growl into life.

He wheels his steed into the drive, dismounting only to close the garage.

He takes a good long look at his pride and joy.
Avel Du - Breton for 'Black Wind'. A good choice, he thinks.

Shiny black plastic shrouds a technological miracle.

This was what he dreamt of in his school days.

It looks good, is comfortable and 'boy!' does it go.

The engine is warm now, time to shut the choke.

Gloves on, visor up - he cruises out of the cul-de-sac like a ship leaving its safe harbour.

Anticipation builds as he gently rides the city streets.

The sun has barely risen and a thin mist masks the local playing fields.

A warm yellow glow peers through the mist giving the mornings chill a cloak of gold.

In the distant sky a bright flame shines through the sky. It lights up the source where the ambrosia that gives his machine power is born.

Out of the city he picks up speed down a straight, tree lined road that hides the local refinery from view.

This is his chance to warm the tyres and get the engine at optimum conditions before the real fun starts.

He turns off and heads up a hill. Its tight twisty corners giving him chance to test the grip of the greasy country lane.

The views of the plains and estuary below tempt his eyes, but he needs to be focussed as the speed picks up.

Fast flowing bends wind through the pine forest, the mist thickens in places, clearing to reveal mirrored waters so calm that you could walk on them.

Open countryside marks his way on the main roads that he must now follow.

Traffic is so light that it's practically none existent. Mr and Mrs Ovlov are only just begining to stir from the Sandman's call and won't be poisoning his fun for a while yet.

His first roundabout demonstrates the need for vigilance as his back wheel skips out on spilt diesel.

The sun is at his back now, burning into his leather.

The mist has all but lifted and the grey asphalt is ready for duty.

Bends are taken with speed, the view of the road is so open that any travellers coming towards him would be seen long before they knew he was coming.

His knees barely kiss the surface as he flicks right then left. The bike changes direction with all the poise of a swallow dancing in the air.

Cars and trucks provide targets to be passed, moving chicanes that add fun to the few straights.

Checking inside, moving wide, the throttle opens - lifting the front wheel ever so slightly.

A voice in his head shouts with a Scottish accent - 'Warp speed Captain!' as the engine gives a grizzly growl.

'Whoosh!' another box on wheels flies backwards, trailing in his wake. In his head Guns and Roses begin to play 'Night Train' to the beat of the road.

A sharp turn approaches, but this time he's keeping that throttle nailed.

He knows this road well.

He's sure that nothings out there.

Certain of his skills.

'NOW!'

He shuts the throttle.

Slamming on the brakes.

'Click, click, click' goes the gear change with a deft flick of his foot and flick of the wrist.

He feels his body beginning to float over the tank.

The bike is straining for grip but still stopping quicker than its pilot.

He throws the bike down to his right, metal scrapes tarmac and sparks light up the road.

He's halfway across the saddle, gripping the cold metal tank with his left knee, his right knee almost touching the ground.

He throws himself off the other side of the bike as it begins to snake, protesting at the strain.

Another bend heading in the opposite direction passes by.

The change in G-forces pound his body as his pulls the bike upright.

A grin forms. "That was cool!" he mutters.

Snake has finished playing. A new track starts...'Funk Out' by Extreme.

He's riding into the sun now, time to flick down his black visor and wind down.

Heavy industry towers from the horizon.

Up ahead, a queue of cars waits impatiently for barriers to rise.

They hold their key cards up to a little metal box.

Stealthily we pass them, occupants glaring through tired green eyes.

'PEEP!' the box shouts back as the barrier rises.

Alongside a black metal steed growls as its throttle is cracked open.
Avel Du doesn't need to wait for barriers, she has the authority to side-step that problem.

A quick 'Beep!' of the horn and we're through!

Slowly winding our way to the bike shed.

Parked up, engine off, Avel Du begins to tick with satisfaction as she cools in her resting place for the next twelve hours.

The fragrance of petrol drifts from across the road.

"That's right boys! Keep making our life-blood. We'll be needing more tonight!" he says to himself.

He enters the office.

"Don't you get tired of having to wear all that gear?" his colleague asks.

"Sometimes!"
Yeah, right! Sometimes, like when prats like you ask stupid questions, but NOT when going to work is THIS good!