Leaves You Cold, You Autumn Leaves

They leave the road shortly after they join up and head through the
thickly gravelled avenue. A young man on a black mountain bike
freewheels to the bottom of the gravelled path, stops, waits and
watches as a red headed, red faced youth on a blue mountain bike
tumbles over the crest and descends to the side of his companion. Paths
intersect the coniferous wood and like the broken spokes of a wheel,
small capillaries lie hidden behind ungroomed pines. Ratruns feed the
leafy centre of forest. The morning is crisp although warm when they
stand still in the sun yet their breath clouds like exhaust fumes.
Neither of them can remember the last time the rain came but the
potholes that mark their paths are almost full. They set off on a track
they both know well, a track that can be negotiated with ease and at
times, considerable speed although they will climb steeply for a spell.
Their mud speckled legs are testament to the rarely beaten track they
now follow and occasionally each rider wipes helpings of mud thrown up
by the front wheel from their eyes and lips.

A rush of pace. A sudden stop as Autumn conspires to block their
progress, turf becomes mire. The red headed rider labours to keep up.
His face flushed and he curses the cigarettes that now burn on in his
chest. He spits more than he breathes. His swarthy athletic friend has
stopped at a junction up ahead, unsure of which direction to follow
down through the trees. With the momentum gained from a downhill
stretch free from heavy mud, the red headed cyclist takes the
initiative and passes his stationary friend, swinging onto another
downhill path dressed with the remains of oaks and elms. Soon the path
ends in a fenced back-garden, the very edge of the wood. Their journey
can only be completed by doubling back through a small stream and up a
vicious slope. This, the red head achieves by hoisting his cycle over
his shoulder and taking a run at it. The climb is harsh and the ground
underfoot, toffee-like. He almost makes the halfway point of the ascent
by the time the other crosses the stream. His lungs still hurt like
hell but his legs are strong. He makes the summit, throws off his cycle
like a man shrugging of a jacket, a warrior dropping off his kill, and
collapses, spitting stringy mucus from his mouth every few seconds
until he has nothing to spit. He reaches for his water bottle and
drinks between wheezes.
"Cameron"
The collapsed biker still panting hard, peers over his feet in time to
see a wheel emerge over the brow.
"What?"
"I found," deep breath, "Something."
"Which is it? A life or a girl?"
A sarcastic smile.
"No this."
An object falls from a dirty palm onto Cameron's wheezing chest.
"Ow you bastard?ooow very nice, expensive too."
"You think?"
The watch was apparently newer than it's dirty appearance and parts of
it glistens in the September sun. Moreover it works. Cameron throws the
watch back at his friend slumped at the base of a tree and rides off
having won more recovery time. Cameron shouts.
"Hey, Scott, that'll make a nice Christmas present for that girl you
can't find."
Scott responds with the gesture the remark deserves.

Cameron moves off quickly, knowing that Scott will soon be chasing his
tail. Determined to get back to the road first, he changes up a gear
and puts all his weight down on the pedals. Lifting and turning the
front wheels over the treacherously greased roots that have edged
through the soil like varicose veins, Cameron forgets his burning lungs
and pumps his heavy thighs harder than he has done all morning.
Standing up off the saddle, he prepares to plummet down into a
sheltered half-pipe, probably formed when a great oak was ripped out,
roots and all by a great storm. He feels his nose break first and then
a sharp pain in his back on landing. He clutches his nose, which pours
with blood into his groin as his sits in dead wet leaves. Blood in his
eyes as he tries to open them. He gets up, unsure of his feet and lets
go of his nose.
"Scott?Scott!?Scott!" He winces in agony. As he shouts the pain in his
face intensifies. Losing his balance, he falls and lands in prickly
undergrowth, uncertain of which pain to placate first, the thorns in
his hands or the pain in his face. He hears the squeal of brakes as the
smell of disturbed soil washes under his nose providing momentary
relief from the smell and taste of blood.
Silence.
"Fuck."
Silence.
"What is it? What did I hit? Scott I can't see."
Cameron feels sick, and so does Scott who dismounts grabbing the water
bottle. He begins to clean Cameron's face and wash his eyes.
"Scott, what the fuck did I hit?"
"I think you found a girl before I did."