In the 1971 film Duel, a motorist is stalked by a truck driver on a remote and lonely road. The modern version plays out on Hobart roads some mornings. I call him Radio Man. I've never seen his face. I've never seen his bike. Yet one or two mornings a week we ride to work together.
This morning, he materialised behind me again, his presence betrayed by his squeaky unoiled chain making squeaky unoiled chain noises, and the staticky radio attached to his handlebars just audible enough to jolt me out of whatever musings are happily diverting me from the everyday. I could see from his shadow he was right on my wheel. Without ever having seen him, except one or twice out the corner of my eye, I'm guessing he's on a mountain bike or a hybrid. He must be reasonably strong because he sticks with me just fine up the hills.
I was battling both a killer headwind and a killer hangover this morning. Radio Man stuck on my wheel like a piece of chewy. He catches up but never passes, and he never says a word or rolls through for his turn in the wind. Speeding up might shake him for a minute, but he always catches back up when I slow down again. Eventually I lost him by sprinting through an orange light in Sandy Bay. It occurs to me Radio Man doesn't know how annoying he is.
Maybe I should tell him. Tomorrow for sure.
Happy photo from Flickr.
2,883km so far this year.