A solitary, unkempt figure, emerges from the foggy gloom dressed in light khaki shirt and cargo pants – which are clearly in need of a belt. Shuffling across the road they adjust their camouflage print headscarf, pulling it tight across their face and mouth, the latent and acrid bush fire smoke hanging in the air hopefully filtered from each breath.
Six sweaty and lycra clad ARC cyclists are sitting at an as yet quiet suburban cafe earlyish on that VERY smokey morning. Peak hour traffic is just getting started creating background hum and the MAMALs are deeply engaged in morning-song – AKA usual post ride warbling.
On to the footpath and along the shopfront the solitary figure seems startled to suddenly come upon us.
Turning sharply, they square up to our table and, to our utter amazement, ask with a good deal of authority…