In the middle of the night, a motorcyclist was riding along a road he knew by heart. The kind of road you travel without even thinking about it, as if your mind were driving. Coming out of a bend, he noticed a discreet glint on the ground, a strange reflection, as if it were not meant to be seen. Nothing clear enough to slam on the brakes, but enough to cause a slight, instinctive swerve.
A few metres further on, he stopped, intrigued. As he walked back, he understood. Where he should have been passing, the road was torn open by a deep pothole, mean, invisible in the darkness. Wide and brutal enough to throw a motorbike off balance. And at the bottom of this hole, as if placed there intentionally, was an object. A small piece of metal, the one he had seen shining.
He picked it up. It was cold, marked by time, perfectly ordinary. Yet it was hard not to see it as a warning. As if the road itself had wanted to say, “Be careful”. It was heavy, one of those objects you keep without really knowing why.
Later, he attached the object to his motorbike. Not out of superstition. Not to feel protected. But to remember. That precise moment. That exact spot where habit alone could have caused a fall. He had the coordinates engraved: those of the bend, the pothole, the point where it could all have ended. That way, every time he rode his motorbike, he would see it. And remember.
Over time, he told his story. Again and again. To his friends, to other motorcyclists, sometimes even to strangers he met at a rest stop or on the side of the road. He wasn't trying to convince anyone. He was simply recounting what he had experienced.
Some smiled when they heard him, others listened in silence. Then they asked us to make one for them. Not to ward off bad luck, but to keep a discreet reminder. A mark engraved in metal, visible every time you get on your motorbike, to remind you that anything can happen. Sometimes accompanied by GPS coordinates, sometimes by a first name, a surname, or a simple word. The memory of someone we promised we would always come home to. Or someone who, one day, simply didn't come home. Or something we didn't want to forget.
The story circulated. It passed down through the years, until my grandfather told it to me. He remembered the object in particular, which he could describe in detail, as if the metal had retained its memory. Thirty years later, this story came back to me one evening, for no particular reason. Like an echo.
This Road Cue, this road marker (in French), exists for that very reason. To remind us that mastery is fragile, that nothing can ever be taken for granted. Perhaps it holds a touch of magic. Sceptics will say no. But those who believe in it know that sometimes a simple spark, at the right moment, is enough to bring you back whole.