Writing: NaNoWriMo 2022

Pride of Bikes

American Kingdom: Chapter 1.3

Previous scene:

Down to The Battery, very Charleston, some of the finest townhouses in the South lined up, angled to catch the breeze, shutters all the same shade of deep green, heavy guns once aimed at Fort Sumter, now things for kiddies to climb on.

Up Meeting Street, a couple of hours looking at the sights along the way, passing Four Corners again. On the way north Ted peeled off to collect our late arrival. He’d join us again at Marion Square, where we would break for lunch in an area full of good, cheap eateries both staffed and patronised by students from the nearby college.

After lunch was the danger period. A bunch of tourists feeling their oats and a few brews, confident they had mastered Charleston’s grid. It was a lot of fun, with everyone in high spirits, but always a high chance of collisions and falls, especially if there were a few potholes in some of the back streets.

The highlight had been a touring German sports team three years back. They had descended on Kudu Coffee — which also serves some excellent craft beers — and rode in formation four wide and four deep along the streets, bellowing out raucous drinking songs and steamrolling any opposition on the ride back to the depot.

I smiled at the memory. All told, I loved my job, I loved Charleston’s quirky old quarters, and most of all I loved my partner. Life was full of happiness and smiles.

That was the moment karma kicked in, I guess. I looked back to check for any stragglers and rode straight into a pothole that had no right to be there. Next thing I knew I was wobbling and screeching along the road, falling flat onto my back, narrowly avoiding the wheels — and hooves — of one of the horse-drawn carriage tours.

Brian picked me up and sat me on the kerb while I examined myself for injuries. My helmet had kept my head intact, but I had a graze along one arm, my butt was going to be one wonderful bruise for the next few days, and my jeans were covered in shit.

Ah, horse shit, to be precise.

Which pretty much summed up my feelings once my bike had been retrieved, along with its extremely bent front wheel.

Luckily my phone still worked. Or maybe it didn’t, because Ted wasn’t picking up or responding to texts. Then again he was probably giving the late arrival the abbreviated morning tour, pointing out the highlights and no time to look at his phone.

Luckily our depot, such as it was, was only a few blocks distant. The ideal would have been for Ted to ride to my rescue in our van with a replacement wheel but failing that, I could limp back and swap the wheel over myself.

I explained my plan to Brian, put him in charge until Ted or I returned and stressed the importance of ensuring that everyone used their bike locks while at lunch. I’d return in half an hour, with just enough time for a sorely needed painkiller brew, and we’d continue the tour.

By the time I reached our premises I was feeling more interested in taking myself upstairs and having a good long soak followed by curling up in bed with some pills, instead of jumping back on the bike with a cheery smile.

My joints were stiffening up after half-pushing, half-carrying my wounded bicycle the half-mile back from Marion Square. I smelled of horse manure and badly needed a complete change of clothes. Worst of all, I was looking for someone to blame and the most obvious candidate was myself. What sort of an example was I setting for our clients?

I unlocked the store door, set the bike on a work stand, and headed upstairs for a quick shower and fresh clothing.

And there, on our bed, was a strange woman, eyes closed, her hands kneading on her breasts like she was making sourdough, and between her spreadeagled thighs my partner giving her the world-class Ted talk I’d been dreaming about all morning.

Next chapter:

The whole book (NaNoWriMo work in progress):