The bike has a deafening sound of a rattlesnake; from the bell.
The bike,is a paralysed soul patiently waiting for its return in the race.
The bike is a ancient ornament;now fungi and curled plants dominate its landscape.
Decaying in the sun while the grass grows;in isolation.
The bull handles are no longer pristine quality;only rust roams the handles.
The deflated tyres are incapable of use anymore.
Smeared,snapped chains have a desire of use again.