Occasionally, on my way to work, I will see men walking or cycling down the long, gentle hill from my suburb to the CBD, dressed in their sportswear, with a freshly ironed business shirt hanging from their backpack. The shirts catch the breeze as they go, spreading and flapping behind them like cloaks.
In my mind they are reflections of a superhero self, these middle-aged anonyms, fighting the good fight against that kilo a year since 30, against a worrying blood pressure reading, against a wife’s nagging, or snatching a few quiet moments from the ravening jaws of their life. From the corner of your eye, in a split second, from the window of a bus, you see them as they see themselves (or as they are?): Superman, cape billowing, keeping some personal evil at bay.