Sunday morning rush hour. We come to a stop light and soon we are surrounded by motorcycles. Their handle bars tap our side mirrors as they squeeze through the narrow spaces between the cars.
Their exhaust clouds the streets.
And we have become accustomed to it. Accustomed to the sight of a child riding between her parents. Accustomed to the buzzing rumble. Accustomed to weaving in and out.
Just a normal Sunday commute.