The Airportline: Observations

You leave the training with your sweaty hair folded into your second hand hat. You bike and the wind slaps your sweaty face when you pass the Amstel river, its yellow light laughing at you and your tired body as you push yourself towards what now feels like the possibility of infinite sins. In your ipod Grinderman cuts your ears with dirty blues rock and aggressive guitars that sound like an industrial meltdown. You press your fingers harder against your handlebars, you see red traffic lights but you pay no attention, you go straight to the beat of a drum, beating in the tune of insanity. 'I drink a liter of cognac and threw her down on the bed' Nick Cave yells and you pass by the green and red Christmas lights and the expensive stores of Hoofdweg. You give the now deserted street that is paved with meaningless personal wealth the finger in your mind. You can't let go of your handlebars, you don't trust the effect it might have.

'I got the no pussy blues' rolls over you over and over without any breathing space. All that is left is the wind gusting against your every push on the pedal. But you pay no attention as you pass a tram with boring people in their boring lives as you cross Overtoom. You are out in the wind and darkness and Nick Cave is yelling No Pussy Blues in your ears. Your legs hurt but you keep pedaling up over bridges where the peaceful canals turn into evil fountains when Nick Cave crawl around in your head with his band and his deperation which he wears better than anyone else. You turn on to Kinkerstraat and the Christmas lights are tacky, No Pussy Blues keeps parading down you veins and it is not until you lock your bike in front of the drug dealers, and remove your hat that you return to the real world again. Suddenly the canals look peaceful and you loose your need to throw your finger against anyone, that is, before you push play again.