At work when I pull up, I pack my gear away in my Topeak trunk and panniers in one, slowly take off my helmet, and then walk slower yet pass the usual group of early morning smokers. With helmet at arms length and at eye level, I chant my mantra. The helmet is akin to a skull with mystic powers.

Wide eyed, and in a low mumble I thank the cycling Gods for a safe and fast journey through the urban jungle, and ask that the lungs of these poor souls be spared another day.

Over and over again I chant as I approach the front entrance.
I do this amongst cat calls, hisses, and cigarette buts being flung at me.