This man was riding his bicycle down a really steep road. He was moving like a freight train. No. That's not right. He was moving like a locomotive. No.
He was moving like a gazelle.
He was moving like a man with a mission. (Snicker.)
He was moving like demons from hell were chasing him.
He was moving like a giraffe. (Huh?)An antelope.
He was moving like he had no manana. (Hmmm.)
He was bookin'. Haulin'. Smokin'.
He was streakin' his way down a gnarly run.
He was rockin' and rollin' down like a man with an endless groove loop in his headphones.
He was piston-ing his legs with the galloping cadence of a thoroughbred.
Duuuude! He was steamrollin' it, man.
Like greased lighting.
Like a hurricane. A tornado. A torrent.
Like he was shooting out with the rip tide.
Anyway, he was riding the bike along, trying to describe just how fast he was going. He couldn't find the right analogy, simile, metaphor or otherwise. He just knew his eyes were watering and the sweat he'd worked up was cold in the self-made wind. He knew if he tipped a little too much to the right he'd pop his peddle on the curb and likely flip in a fury of flailing limbs. If he veered too much to the left he'd be plowed by the passing cars. It was a rush, but he couldn't describe it. Not with the right image.
He turned and glanced over his left shoulder. No head lights. Good it was clear.
"Hey! How fast am I going?"
(He doesn't want a specific speed. He wants a specific description. Do you have one?)