Sunday Evenings

Every Sunday, the cops put up barricades at the road leading from Besant Avenue to the beach. The only people who get caught are the motorcyclists moving at a sedate 40 kmph. The others, who weave between the thickening traffic are oblivious to the curses of car and other drivers. They have developed their own early warning systems. The have scouts to see where the police barricades the road. Then , they just discover another side street and blaze a noisy trail through a calm and quiet neighborhood. They move in packs of eight or ten. All the riders carry a pillion, all of them believe they are a reincarnation of the cult of the Mad Max films.
They don't believe they will ever get injured or even crash. They have complete faith in their bikes and their abilities to ride. If you ever get caught in the middle, all you hear are the drones rising, flashing and then fading away.
The police have done everything. They have put up speedbreakers on the main beach road, they have patrols out in the evenings, they have a whiole bunch of policemen stationed at various vantage points. Yet, they have very little sucess. It's almost as if the riders are engaged in a cat and mouse where they are the cats and the policemen are the mice