SWARTHOS

Here I am, hunched over a creaky desk in some godforsaken corner of my skull, trying to wrestle meaning out of this batshit insane world, and the wire comes screaming in—high winds in China, they say, gusts so ferocious they’re telling anyone under 115 pounds to glue their asses indoors or risk getting yeeted into the next province like a paper bag in a tornado. I’ve got this photo in front of me, some poor bastard on a scooter, draped in rain gear like a soggy ninja, tearing through Beijing’s streets while the sky hurls buckets of rain and wind that could strip the paint off a tank. He’s hauling ass, leaning into the storm like he’s daring it to take him out, and I’m sitting here thinking, This is it, man—this is the raw, unfiltered pulse of existence.

The news hits like a cheap shot of whiskey: Northern China’s getting pummeled by a cold vortex from Mongolia, winds clocking 150 klicks an hour, enough to make your teeth rattle and your soul question its lease on life. They’re canceling marathons, shutting down parks, grounding flights—hell, they even axed the world’s first humanoid robot half-marathon, which sounds like something I’d hallucinate after a three-day bender. And then there’s this warning, this glorious, absurd edict from the weather gods: if you weigh less than 115 pounds, stay the hell inside, because these gales will snatch you up like a kite with a death wish. I’m picturing tiny grandmas and wiry street vendors clinging to lampposts, screaming into the void as their umbrellas explode into shrapnel. It’s apocalyptic comedy, pure chaos with a side of bureaucracy.
I stare at this scooter guy again, his face blurred by rain and sheer velocity, and I can feel the madness of it all. He’s not just riding—he’s battling, man, a one-man war against the elements, his little bike whining like a kicked dog as he slices through the deluge. The wind’s howling, trying to peel him off the road, but he’s got that lunatic grit, that fuck-you defiance you only see in people who’ve stared down worse than a storm. Maybe he’s late for work, maybe he’s chasing some fleeting dream, or maybe he just woke up and said, “Screw it, I’m riding through this shitshow.” Whatever it is, he’s my hero for the day, a soggy middle finger to the universe’s tantrum.
Beijing’s locked down, 22 million souls told to hunker low while the city braces for a beating. They’re calling it a decade-high orange alert, which sounds like something you’d order at a dive bar, but it’s got the whole region spooked. Temperatures dropping 13 degrees in a day, winds that could knock a panda off its bamboo—shit, even the robots are staying home. And yet, there’s this guy, this scooter warrior, out there in the thick of it, rain gear flapping like a battle flag, tearing through the storm like he’s got a personal vendetta against meteorology. I want to buy him a drink, shake his hand, ask him what kind of lunatic courage it takes to look at a sky like that and think, Yeah, I’m going for it.
The absurdity of it all twists my brain into knots. A country of 1.4 billion, and they’re out here measuring wind speed against body weight like it’s a carnival game. “Step right up, folks, if you’re under 115, you’re gonna fly!” I’m cackling at the thought of officials with clipboards, eyeing people on the street like, “Nah, you’re too light, back inside.” Meanwhile, the heavyweights are strutting around, smug as hell, like their extra pounds are a badge of storm-proof honor. It’s dystopian vaudeville, a circus of survival where the stakes are real and the punchline’s written in gale-force winds.
I lean back, light some Egyptian Musk incense, and let the smoke curl up toward the ceiling. The world’s a madhouse, always has been, but every now and then it tosses you something like this—a story so wild, so perfectly unhinged, it reminds you why you keep showing up. That scooter guy’s out there still, I bet, weaving through the chaos, rain stinging his face, wind screaming in his ears, and not a single ounce of quit in him. Here’s to you, brother—may your tires stay true and your madness burn brighter than the storm.