Stuff-mo-tron

Fri, 04 Jan 2008

The tiny, frail arrangement of tubes and cables, tires and spokes beneath me hums. I am flying.

Up the hill, parked cars whiz past, hulking dark forms, loaded like traps to spring in my path, but they cannot catch me. The tires glide effortlessly along the broken, dark pavement. Glittering glass. Crunch. But it does not matter.

Level ground now. My legs strain against the grasping, protesting hands of reluctant mass, and I fly faster. Faster and faster. The wind laughs behind me, urging me on. Cars slow down and start flowing backwards, like a wheel spinning faster yet seeming slower.

Brakes whirr against their miniature discs, slowing for a pedestrian foolish enough to put herself in the path of my flight; the light-trail behind me swerves, tracing my path to the dismay of any competitors. Pick up the pace, legs ache so beautifully, chain thrums against the sprocket, spokes elongating in the wheel as the watts flow in, stroke after relentless stroke.

Cars slow again, but I fly past, gliding over rough pavement, my eye wary, always looking for those caged, sleepy drivers. My lights wink out at them, I am here. The stoplight stumbles from red to green with a silent ker-chunk of miniature relays, and whumm goes the chain as I pick up speed.

Downhill now, the wind whips past my head. In my ear, the radio whispers of Huckabee and recession, McCain and musicians, but I don't hear. It's not important right now. The night flows around me, darkness pouring over my arms, sleeves rolled up to dissipate heat, heating the world as I pass with the quiet zzzz of the freewheel.

Uphill again, straining against gravity, but gravity will lose this battle. Over the cracked sidewalks, headlights glaring angrily at no one and nothing, the oncoming cars locked into a crawling hell of their own making. Beneath me, the thrum-thrum of pedal strokes.

Click, click and snick, snick, up through the gears, each one allowing a bit more speed at a slightly higher cost. The night swirls around me again, the dark air drowning out the chatter of pundits. Around the circular barrier. It slows the cars, but I barely deviate from my course. Left. Right. Nothing coming. Go.

With the thrum of the chain, and the gentle caressing sussuration of the liquid darkness, the noiseless, watching zzzz of the freewheel, the silent bright quickness of the light, darting and scattering off debris in my path. With the aching strain of legs, the breath rushing in and out.... This is what I call a commute.

Written by Ian Johnston. Software is Blosxom. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net.