Feb 22

The Orange Monkey

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Short story time again…

The deafening whirr of rubber tires on pavement assailed Brian’s ears. Pedaling harder, he knew he didn’t have much left in his legs; this was going to have to do. The rest of the pack was all around him. There was still one hill to go today. This ‘fun ride’, as they claimed it would be, happened every Sunday morning. That was a joke; you’d never met a more competitive group. There was nothing ‘fun’ about it.

Last time Brian didn’t pace well, trying to strive for the front, and completely blew up 3/4 of the way through the last lap. Instead of receiving yet more mockery at the Orange Monkey, the diner the group met at after rides, he had just continued on home by himself after they dropped him from the pack without so much as a backwards look. If he didn’t back off today, he could forget that extra waffle for yet another week.

Sweat had long ago drenched his forehead, and now he was trying his best to blink hard to keep it from stinging his eyes. “Breathe, pedal, breathe,” he repeated over and over in his head, trying his old mental calming trick. Legs pumping furiously, feeling quite detached from his body. They kept going, almost enjoying the effort expended here, with the tiny acidic twinge at the end of each downstroke, reminding him of a limit. He sat up, put his hands on top of the bars, and looked out ahead.

3 mile hill rose to meet the sky in front of him. Not much longer and he would be upon it. He took a quick moment to glance at the computer, his average was looking good, certainly better than a month ago. This little piece of mental candy was enough to make him smile slightly, at least between breaths.

Other guys were sitting up now as they approached the hill. An angry motorist blew past them, honking and screaming out the window. The car rattled noisily as it bounced through the dip just in front of the hill and accelerated slowly up. The bikers followed.

Almost right away shifters started working, dropping back gears to keep the muscles torqued but not over done. The speed dropped back considerably, everyone now in their own little world, concentrating, pumping. A few started to spill out the back, the increased demands having overcome their already diminished capacity. Brian looked down now, not wanting to see the top, just wanting to hold on to the group today.

Legs burning. Not much left there, but Brian refused to give into temptation and look up to see the climax. Time seemed to stand still. He felt had been here, on this hill, whirr of tires, quiet huffing, forever. It was all he knew, it was all he was, just… breathe, concentrate, breathe. How much further? Nevermind, stay with it, waffles await, the clink of glasses, the laughter of the group around the big table, breathe, a little more, breathe…

Around him people started to pull away. He risked looking ahead; the climax was just a few yards away. Already the stronger ones were standing, sprinting to the top. Not much left in the legs, but not much left in the hill either. He stood, thumbing down two gears as he did so, sprinting, fire shooting up his legs, pumping battery acid, he felt like screaming out, stopping, making the pain stop, anything…

Decent at last. He had done it, he had stayed with them. Grabbing more gears on the long descent he continued pedaling, but with little effort, spinning out his legs to remove the firey bolts of pain that had cursed them moments ago. Tire whirr now replaced with the deafening wind, drying him out, cooling him off. He had made it. He was still with the group today. There would be no mockery at the Orange Monkey. A ‘fun’ ride indeed, the smile finding itself back to his face, zipping down the hill.

His waffle would be most yummy.