“Freaks!”;

“Get off the road, chunks of metal!!”;

and the blatting of a belligerent driver, a palm pressed hard against a soft horn, speeding perilously past our column of thirty cyclists.

Thankfully, this wasn’t the soundtrack to our 13km night ride.

This ride had to be done at night.

There was no way, by day, that the Projector Bike could do what it was built to do: project films from a bicycle.

It had an orange trailer up front (projectors aren’t iPad-sized) and speakers hooked to its rear frame.

From two hours on a Sunday night, we followed the Projector Bike and the music it played through familiar neighborhoods: Redfern, Glebe, Pyrmont.

We stopped for films and popcorn thrice.

In one of the films, a Spanish-speaking bicycle framemaker says: “Being happy with what you love…I’ll do this all my life.”

In another, three men on fat bikes cycle to the Indian-Tibet border, sweating in a freezing Himalayan winter.

Our first film, in our first location, showed NYC BMX riders, teenagers with scars and worn sneakers, flying from ramps that are as steady as the trains above are shaky. The wall we projected onto wasn’t flat. When the cyclists soared, they seemed not only to fly, but to teleport.

By Blackwattle Bay, a man in a thin shirt salutes us. “Cars are destroying the planet!” he cried, “We need people like you, on push bikes.”

We glided through night, as lit and buoyant as any seaside carnival.

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