This is a short story written by Bill for the Final Exam of his Creative Writing class.
The Rider
A young man sat in his living room on a Saturday night. He
was bored, bored with the world. Although there were
only three weeks left of school, he didn't relish the
thought of another boring summer. The whole idea made
him angry. So, he sat angry, bored, thinking about the
things he could be doing, just like he'd done a thousand
times before.
Later on, he was stalking around the house like a caged animal
when, suddenly, he found himself standing before the
basement door. Strange, he thought, what could I possibly
want down there? Without bothering to think, he started
down the stairs.
The basement wasn't too dark or too cold but it definitely
looked like your average basement. The air was slightly
damper than upstairs, but not uncomfortably so. It was
almost pleasantly different from the upstairs oppressiveness
so that the great weight of boredom on him seemed somewhat
lessened.
He flipped a wall switch, but it was a moment before the
old fluorescent tubes quivered to life. To him, their
cool, revealing lights seemed alien to the place, but
he didn't know why. He glanced around the room at the
junk from the previous fall lying about him in heaps
and piles. What could possibly have made me come down
here he wondered?
Then something caught his eye that he hadn't noticed before.
It stood majestically amid the old blankets and dirty
laundry in the corner. It's deep, black finish shone
dully under the thin veil of a season's dust. Yet, there
was no mistaking it's newness indeed, the dust seemed
only to enhance it's beauty. He paused, having suddenly
realized what had brought him down here.
He had bought the bike late the previous summer, but didn't
have much of an opportunity to ride it before the weather
turned. He marveled as he looked at it. It's very appearance
seemed to suggest fast motion.
The black of the frame was trimmed with gold decals, boldly
proclaiming the make and model. But even without the
decals, any practiced eye could see that this was no
ordinary bike. The wheels were from Belgium, the ram-style
handlebars from France, and the brakes and gear assemblies
from Japan. It was a precision made road racer.
Soon, it was outside. He had dusted and polished the frame,
pumped up the tires and lubricated the sprockets. It
stood lightly on it's kickstand, chrome gleaming in the
pale moonlight. It stood waiting to be ridden. He looked
at it a moment longer, and then he was off, riding down
the dark streets at an even pace. He rounded the corner
and headed West down 90th Street, shifting up all the
way. Faster and faster he rode, swooping in and out of
the shadows cast by the streetlights. With perfect timing,
he crossed the boulevard through a gap in the traffic
and shot like an arrow toward the South, pacing the cars.
His heart pounded in his temples, and his thighs ached
as he slowed, recrossed the boulevard, and coasted silently
onto a sidestreet.
He looked up to see a group of younger boys riding in front
of him. They weaved back and forth on the street, talking
and laughing noisily. They noticed his approach and looked
back with curious eyes. "Who is it?" he heard them say,
yet still, he hung back, coasting.
The street ended in a "T" intersection. The riders ahead
turned left and then watched to see if he would follow,
but he turned gracefully to the right. Again, he could
hear them talking, questioning him. He smiled to himself.
Fools, he thought, my prowess as a rider is unsurpassed.
The bike itself was more than a match for you. When combined
with the rider, we become indomitable.
He rode on, trying to imagine how those who saw him felt.
Were they impressed? Yes, he decided, they were.
Presently, he began to wonder where he should go, what his
destination might be. He decided to stay on his present,
Southward course until he came upon something, or felt
tired enough to quit. In the mean time, he thought of
a game to play. He would start off from a dead stop,
in first gear and then try to move as far up the progression
of 12 speeds as possible in a one block span.
After a few minutes of that, he found himself in the older
part of his neighborhood. The streets were winding, cobblestone
avenues, yet the bicycle only rode steadier and truer,
as if out of contempt for the bumpy surface. And then
he arrived. There, before him was his favorite, if long
forgotten park. He mounted the curb and proceeded along
the smooth, newly laid asphalt sidewalk, which defined
the park's perimeter. Streetlights were planted at regular
intervals along the path, yet these cast the park's interior
into a deeper darkness. He pulled up by a bench, dismounted,
and set the bike to rest on its kickstand.
He sat down and listened. Although the boulevard was
nearby, its noises could only faintly penetrate the yards
and houses between it and the park. Everything in the
immediate visual range was silent. Occasionally he could
hear the screaming laughter of a teenage girl at the
playground, at the park's far end, but he felt surrounded
by a cool tranquility growing out of the trees silhouetted
by the lights of the street opposite him.
He relaxed and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted lazily
upward, fading to a blue-gray in the light's glare. He
felt no desire to sing a song or hum a tune as he might
have if he'd been sitting home, alone. Here, he was the
great Conqueror, at rest by the black charger, his armor
glinting in the silver moonlight. This day was over,
the
battles won, so now he lay at peace with himself, awaiting
the challenges of yet another day.
Suddenly, his silent reverie was shattered by the roar
of a mini-bike speeding around the park on the sidewalk.
He hated them then. The fool riders of that ghastly machine.
They laughed and screamed shrilly as the motor bike approached
the curve that terminated at his bench. He suddenly realized
that they were going much too fast. He could see the
result of their folly, but he was paralyzed with terror.
As it came out of the turn, the mini-bike fishtailed
and knocked the bicycle over. The driver roared laughter
and sped around, never slowing.
He rose from the bench, shaking with fear and anger.
"Hey asshole!" he screamed after them, but in vain. Finally,
he looked at his bike. The right brake lever was bent,
some paint had chipped off the frame, and the chain had
fallen off. It was all superficial damage, though, and
after picking it up, he saw that none of it was irreparable.
With the absence of the mini-bike, the silence was again
complete. But as he stood gaping at it, he didn't see
a
great, black charger bearing scars from battle, only
a battered bicycle - waiting to be ridden.
As he rode toward home, he noticed that the cobblestones
seemed to be a lot bumpier than they had been before
so that the vibration was unpleasant, even somewhat painful.
It had gotten colder too, and he shivered in his light
jacket. He passed a few people on the way home and once
he heard a stifled laugh, but instead of returning it
with a scornful smile, he only hurried on without looking
back.
Halfway home, he hit a bump, and his chain fell off again.
It was easy enough to replace, yet as he remounted with
grease covered hands, he thought the bike, though still
great, had lost its previous majesty.
When he finally arrived, he brought the bike into the
house and, very carefully, carried it down to the basement.
He returned it to its place among the old blankets and
dirty laundry, switched off the light, and went back
upstairs defeated and angry. He sat in the living room
for a moment, bored, and then went upstairs to bed.
Down in the dark basement, the dust began to settle on
the bent brake lever and the chipped paint, and had he
been there to see it, it would have looked just as it
had before.
B.H.