Ronin.

My friend Motobike and I are the fastest, the nimblest, the snakes that slither over ice. We duck and dive and weave and thread, hither and thither along the dust-sleeted, vendour-cluttered, pot-holed roads. People honk with tight violent clenched fists, unable to understand that slow is something foreign to us, alien like seatbelts and helmets and oppressive road rules. We feel the envy and it sickens us - it quickens us. We are in the future before it's heralded. We glide through time like swords through jelly. We are roadbound Concordes breaking Chiang Mai's insulting little sound barrier. Put your ear to the ground and feel the throttle, hear the hum, drink the broombroombroom. That is us, the infamous Moto and I, and you and your friends can't even begin to comprehend what movement we're capable of.