BIKING SHANGHAI 

Tour de Puxi Night Stage 

Adrenalin pistons my legs

as we surge into the dense sweaty night

a fifty strong throng

of unruly, liberated

don’t give a dam cyclists

intent on claiming the streets

for a brief heady moment

We blur past a monochrome

concrete landscape

neon bejewelled, its music

the dun sound of engines and wheels

chorussed by random horns

Around me riders pass, fall back

weave into slender spaces

chat, smile, touch fists

encourage each other

signal hazards

hold up traffic for the pack

in an unspoken camaraderie

spun by twin wheels

A water stop crowds the pavement

outside a store

smiles, sweat dripping

stories told, names exchanged

moments of silence

a couple passing ask what and why

Then on again into the sodium lit night

contracting, puffing, stretching like 

a cloud of starlings

approximating their wheeling freedom

on streets built for chaotic order

On to the Bund

in a forbidden flypast

a disrespectful nod 

to the city’s sombre monuments

of a distant age

We end in a tired gaggle at a bridge

and a long-bearded old man

squeals his bike to a juddering halt

to wave in a smile

and take cheering applause from us

Pushing wearily home alone

along silent, shadowy streets

my heart still beats with the 

pedal pumping, wheel whirring energy that fuels

my happy bed-seeking soul

Shanghai, oh Shanghai

Shanghai’s Temple of Luxury, the Plaza 66 mall, where new standards of miserable service are set daily.  Shop assistants’ faces are fixed in expressions of empty, arrogant misery, varying in shade from mere disdain for most visitors, especially non-buyers, to fawning and obviously faux delight in the rare event of a purchase.  The general impression is of a large, mostly empty cathedral in which worshippers wander slowly through in awe at the branded marvels on offer, under the watchful eyes of sullen vergers.

Amongst the crowd of dawdling eye-shoppers, devotees move with the speed of purpose, adorned either with the products, usually a bag, belt, shoes, t-shirt, and for men a hat, or if neophytes with the large and visible carrier bags denoting their recent purchase of membership of this elite congregation.

Often older men stroll by with startlingly young, thin ladies on their arm, kitted out in very tight trousers or impossibly short skirts, totteringly high heels and smiles of acquisitory joy.  The man, usually stout, with dyed hair, trails an air of smug satisfaction at his wealth and prowess while satisfying her craving for expensive brands.

Most of the stores are empty for much of the day, save for their grim guardians, the exceptions being Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Chanel & Hermes, where occasionally entry needs to be controlled to prevent the crowds from enlivening the prevailing misery too much.

Like the expensive fashion they house, each store has to be expensively and regularly renewed.  These are after all the flagship stores, the opulent chapels of their sainted brand and their magic and power must be constantly enhanced to feed the devotees’ faith in their ability to transform and enrich their lives.