air time

Heck, I hope it holds together. The elusive character looked down at the front wheel, trusting that the axle was not loose. It was slightly buckled; grime had built up on the rims and the brakes were out of alignment. Looking over his shoulder and down at the back wheel, he saw to his concern that the back tire was perishing; the tube would bust out at any time - the tire was so low. Needs air. The old red tape which held the brake and gear cables to the frame was perishing and peeling off. The thick white tape around the handle-bars was also beginning to peel. The back brake cable wasn't in the right place - the man slotted it back into the brake lever.

The elusive character wore a baggy pair of jeans. They were ripped at the bottom cuffs, at the back, from walking on them so much. The right knee was going. They had buttons, not a zip and an old belt that was faded and creased and coming apart a bit. A pair of grey Dockers that he had bought from his brother when his brother had decided that they were no good. A grey t-shirt, horizontally pinstriped that he had bought in Wallmart when he had been in the US in '05. A tartarn-patterened shirt, sleeves rolled up to just above the elbow and the first 3 buttons undone. Sure, he didn't fit in, he knew that but didn't care. A pair of earphones in his ears were plugged into his Motorolla V360 cellphone. He was listening to Sunlight and Shadows by Poor Old Lu.

His legs kept the rythm they knew so well. Whenever a slight turn or an obstacle approached, he would bend one elbow downwards, his shoulder into the turn, pulling the wheel slightly. Cycling down the busy road directly outside the university, a thoughtless middle-aged woman opened her car door a few meters ahead. The number 3 bus was hurtling down the road behind him. Cars tightly packed, lining the side of the road, there was nowhere for him to turn. There were two options for the cyclist. Smash into the door of the car with his body curled into a protective foetal postion. Or die. Neither of the two options appealed greatly to the elusive character, and in the few mili-seconds that he had between now and reality, he thought back over his life.

When he was very little, he had played on a lovely red swing in the back garden, and there was a delightful little brook gargling down past him. Sometimes he would feed the ducks there with his Mum. He ate a lot of bannanas, they were cheap and nutritious and mashed. On his fifth birthday, he had had a running race with the Japanese student who was then staying with his family; and one of the little girls who had been invited to the party had worn her party crown upside-down. His brother's bag of lollies had spilled under the table and several of the boys had crawled under the table looking for free lollies. At the age of nine, his parents took him out of school and began home-educating him. Freedom . A bit later on, when he was about 10 or 11, he made a flying fox with is brother and the boy next door. It was a cool flying fox, behind the garage, between a really tall tree and a pear-tree. A difficult neighbor had insisted that the tree be cut down, and the flying fox had to go. The boys had built another flying fox between the massive willow tree and the jungle gym. One time when he had gone across it, the rope snapped and he fell on his back from quite high up. When he was 14, he watched on in sublime apathy as the rest of the world hurtled about, rushed around preparing for "the Y2K". What did it stand for? He didn't know, he didn't care. He had watched the TV for hours. That's the way they do stuff these days. When he was almost 15, he had woken up early to go rabbit-shooting with his mate, when they heard on the radio about some sort of terrorist attack in New York. Shortly after turning 19, the elusive character had entered Canterbury university, the university past which he was now biking. He had learned some stuff and met some people and had a few free sausages and cans of coke. And then...

His shoulders convulsed, the impact was 2 seconds away. Turning towards the boot of the sedan, he stood up and began to lift the front wheel of his bike. He was travelling at about 35kph. The middle-aged lady now woken from her stupified revery stood in helpless horror, a look of remorseful panic crossing her middle-aged face. Just before the front wheel came in contact with the unforgiving back of the car, the man pulled up the backwheel, resulting in a delayed bunny-hop. The front gears scraped over the boot and the front wheel swerved violently on the dusty back windscreen. Two powerful strokes on the pedals and the bike shot up the windscreen and onto the roof. Deftly handling the front wheel, the elusive character veered off to the left, and as he came off the side of the front windscreen, he pulled up the front wheel of the bike.

The landing was good. Both tires exploded on impact; the front forks bent and the handlebars were skewed forward with the pressure upon them. The bike sped forward and the rider still maintaining control, put all his remaining strength into slowing the bike down. The brakes screamed as they bit into the mild steel of the old bike, and it came to a shuddering stop. Hah, that was worth it. The middle-aged lady hurried up behind the elusive character. Her tongue tripping over itself, she apologised profusely. He wasn't too upset. He made a few scathing comments in the direction of the general public, referring to car-drivers as a whole. The middle-aged lady reached into her middle-aged purse and pulled out 3 $100 notes. Will this be enough for a new bike? she asked...