Some things in life just go together. Like these two. A match made in heaven. One is French. One is Dutch. One was born in 1980, the other was born in 1978. One is 70's blue with a hint of sparkle-fleck, the other is black.
They are mopeds. Real mopeds. Not the scooters with the fat donut wheels, but true mopeds. They have petals like a bike that start their two-stroke motors. They are loud. They only have one gear. They have rust, chipped paint, caked grease and step-through frames. One has a bent front fork.
These beasts will be growling well into the apocalypse and long after. Behold archaic machinery at its finest. Before the exploitation of machines. If they were personified they would be poets, or rockers, beatnicks, troubadours, wayfarers, wanderers, forlorn and blown out. Societal dropouts and prophets. I might name one Bob Dylan, the other Walt Whitman.