Down in the garage I have a box of indicators. Odd ones. Cheap "sacrificial" indicators from ebay. I'd like to tell you the collection is part of a passionate hobby I pursue with great gusto. That one day I will have one kind of every cheap- arse indicator ever made and all will bask in the intermittent flashes of glory bestowed upon them. But what sounds like bullshit, oddly enough, generally is bullshit. And that sounds a hell of a lot like bullshit to me, and I wrote it. But then, there it is written and so it must be true, or partly so, or not. Seems like that truth stuff doesn't even matter any more, this is social media aint it? isnt it? So hmm...maybe none of this really didn't happen (think on it..clever huh? and explains also why my left side hurts). Anyway. Let's take this somewhere soon before it implodes. The theory is that every eight years I'll get to a point where the rotation of the earths indicators will be such that all indicators on my scooter will be of the same variety. A situation known internationally as THE INDICATOR EQUINOX. Of course to reach such a benchmark some indicators must be sacrificed. A situation that I'm sure you are familiar with. If not, it is possible you are much better a rider than me (and so can just bugger off) or are worse but careful and resent the needless sacrifice of cheap plastic into grinding mangling rock and earth (and so can just bugger off). For the two people still reading I bring forth to you a tale. You see, sometimes fate moves too slow for the timely passing of the equinox. Sometimes we have to go out and FORCE the issue. Undoubtedly by now you wonder how anyone with sensibilities as refined as yours truly could ever departed ungracefully from their trusty steed. But I assure you it does happen. A ..err...little bit. Upon invitation to participate in an off season review of work practices in an environment far removed from the habitat my species usually operates in...verily did I depart. The rather too soon appearance of snow confirmed the message of blistering cold that my nose sent to my brain whenever I opened my foggy visor. But vision seemed to vastly improve progress. Too much so. Indications of circumstances indicative of indicator sacrifice were circumstantially absent. And so...one more time unit the breach. Finally, just as I was building a completely unwarranted amount of belief in my own prowess I made a rather minor decision that had a rather major influence upon the relationship between my front and back wheels. Now traditionally, when engaged in a passage of forward momentum, my back wheel has chosen to follow the front. Though after 34 years in such a fix I can understand why they may have tired of this status quo. Why shouldn't the rear wheel go first? Well, turns out there is quite a good reason. I found out by dabbing the rear brake a little to hard and ... wait for it ...bingo! I barely had time to scratch myself. The gods had clearly viewed my venture favorably. Carefully I picked up the remnants of my indicator and wrapped it in a ceremonial oil rag, the shroud of tourin. Such a wondrous outcome had been unexpected so early in an overnight adventure. I was now mere miles away from my retreat and so had quickly to devise my story of great hardship and endurance. A story so pure in commitment and tenacity and faith that whereupon I unraveled the shroud of tourin before them all would behold the truth that is the indisputable power of the indicator equinox. There were no Tigers at the Tiger hut. Quite a triumph really, But there was growling, the kind of sick guttural echoing of punch drunk men with frozen minds and carefree souls. The kind of rush of freedom that becomes available when those with great responsibility relive times and tales of high stakes told at high times, in high places, when nothing can threaten the very peace they by nature commonly reject. By morning the snow had eased. The shroud appeased. And time came to make way for new indicators. The Equinox was a day closer. But a big day. A whole year of days, a lifetime to some, to those who cried "not me" and fell softly back into bed instead of painfully upon the solid icy surface of the mother earth. Oh Mother, accept thy indicator of questionable child labour and take not the child but the indicator itself. And I will ride on. Just me, the shroud, my steed...oh....and these three rabbits... *Central Highlands. Tasmania. *Pictures, so it did happen. Words because no one really knows why or how.