Push a Pedal

The bicycle had a puncture. I was halfway to work. It happened on the roundabout. After the second exit. Felt the air leave the tyre. Peumf. Peumf. Peumf. Disaster. I know. I know.

It’s happened again. Four Mondays in a row. Not to mention two Fridays. What are the chances?

I should find another mode of transport, but then what about exercise? Burning calories. Building muscle tone. Calf muscles. Firm buns. Buttocks to crack walnuts. Crush grapes. A pistachio-flavoured macaroon. A healthy body has associated benefits to both the mind and the spirit. Think of the lungs. The heart. A flotilla of corpuscles. It's not an experience to be replicated on a bus, tube or train.

Waiting in queues.

Bumping and brushing against the bottoms and boobs of strangers.

Hearing muffled music through earphones or pods. Commuters on carriages playing videos and reels. Overheard conversations about roadworks on a ring road already notorious for traffic jams. That loud woman who randomly met a former colleague and spoke breathlessly for fifty minutes about her ex-husband, who they both knew, and how he cheated on her after 20 years together. Stating how she was over him. That she was relieved to be away from his controlling behaviour and lies. No, I could not tolerate these travel scenarios. I wanted tyre and tarmac and the tightness of Lycra on my skin. The clack of my shoes on concrete. The snap of clips. A ting-ting of my bell. Off and away with the push of a pedal. Hands firmly on padded grips.

I was heading to the office. Where else on a weekday?

My intentions were noble. I understood duty. Obligations. I am under contract after all. Yet I cannot be held responsible for the saboteurs, revolutionaries and unseen cadre of urban resistance fighters with their carefully placed pins, needles, nails and shards of glass.  How can I be expected to factor-in such an ambush on public highways? I explained this to my Manager when I called from the side of the road. Their response was typical of their type. A soul scudded with consumerist greed. Proud defender of the free markets. The sort of individual who worshipped the notion of arriving at the office to be ready to work at 9:00am sharp come what may. Someone who frowned on breaks and leaving at 5:30 on the dot. For we all know the truth—the contract is a baseline. The bare minimum. They demand more from an employee. Blood and sweat are not enough.

There must be tears.

And I was on the verge of crying at the unfairness of my situation. Having to be admonished by a person who did not own a bicycle. Had no opinion on cycle lanes and the pedestrianisation of town centres. Cycle racks. Locks-ups. Showers. The need for exercise and its benefits for not only the body, mind and spirit, but the very planet itself.

“Yes,” I screamed, “it's happened again—sack me!”

I would have to push my bike home. It would take at least an hour or three. And then I would require a change of clothes. A decision to be made about the bus, tube or train. All these scenarios. Timings and schedules to fathom. Stops vs stations. The mental effort was enormous. Almost too much. Monumental. I held the phone to my bell and ting-tinged repeatedly at my Manager before ending the call. That’ll show them, I thought.

Laughing to myself.

Pushing my bike along the pavement. Shoes clacking. There were tears amid the laughter. Rivulets on my cheeks. It was too late. There was no going back. I could feel endings within me. Irreversible transitions. A dye cast deep inside.

I bought a flat white at a café. Served by a young girl with green hair who wore a badge protesting against war. A fever was gripping this land. A bloodlust. I sensed the clamour for conscription and National Service. These were dangerous times for a person of fighting age.   

And I realised I could not face my enemies. I had to collect my thoughts and regroup. Study the options. It was evident to me that I would require transport to leave this brutish city of saboteurs and assassins.

I sipped my coffee. The caffeine levels were sufficient to provide a kick but not overwhelm.

I felt the path reveal itself to me.

I would return home and focus on repairing my damaged tyre with my puncture repair kit.

All other considerations were secondary until I had restored full mobility to my beloved bicycle. I would then examine maps. Physical ones that folded out. Not the digital kind that could be tracked by malevolent agencies. I would search for the B roads. Never the As. Pack my supplies. Decide on a remote and untouched location of peace and serenity. A forest with a stream, where I could fish for salmon in the morning mist, a chorus of birds singing in the trees.

No nails and needles. No managers. No looming cry for war and destruction.  

I had reached a point where my sole ambition in life was to disappear.  

Just push a pedal and go.