Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 785 by Angharad

I stood before the bedroom mirror and donned the racing skins. Zipping up the shirt I mused, “I’ll bet Mark Cavendish’s chest doesn’t look like this.” If it did his girlfriend would probably be disappointed.

I pulled on my cycling shoes over white socks – unlike the dreadful black things young Cavendish wears. I stood before the mirror once again and surveyed the vision before me. I couldn’t think what Simon saw in me, but then beauty is allegedly in the eye of the beholder. Time was ticking on, so I dashed downstairs, clomping as the cleats in my shoes bumped on the ancient treads.

“Whaddya think?” I said to Simon, giving him a twirl.

“I’d prefer it without the ponytail and the armour plate at the crutch, but the top looks nice.” He leant over to kiss me and craftily touched my nipples which stood to attention and poked out through my bra and top. “Yes, much better,” he said and smirked. Blushing, I went out to get my bike.

After doing a quick check and putting a little air in the tyres, I wheeled the bike out into the drive and mounted it, just clipping in my right shoe as I like to put my left down on the ground for balance when stationary. The road was clear and off I went.

It was relatively warm for October, otherwise I’d have needed arm and leg warmers and possibly a jacket. It’s irritating; you start riding and it feels freezing. After a short time you start to warm up and it feels fine. Then you do some hill work and suddenly you are nearly expiring from the heat or in grave danger of spontaneous combustion.

I remember on one occasion, taking my shirt off and my helmet, and cycling in my sports bra, I’d got so hot. Got a few comments from motorists, mainly suggestive verging on obscene, which I ignored. No chance of that today, it was too parky for striptease.

I headed up towards the downs – yeah, I know up the downs – but this is England, we invented the language that most Americans can’t speak –and I know what I mean. Before we go down the road of saying the opposite of what we mean -- look out – when we mean, look in and so forth; most Brits know what I mean, innit?

Goodness this hill has grown since I last rode it. I do enjoy little dialogues with myself in my head, takes away the pain of climbing up bloody hills, and this one has definitely got steeper since last time I rode. I was out of the saddle and dancing on the pedals – yeah, right, a foxtrot – I believe that’s a slow one, it sure wasn’t a quickstep.

By the time I’d laboured my way to the top, I was sweating and puffing and certainly not in need of extra lagging – maybe air-conditioning. Now that’s an idea to conjure with – air conditioning for bicycles.

I chuckled to myself as I pulled into the car park on the top and gazed at the view – it was pretty impressive, Portsmouth lay before me and beyond that, the beautiful briny, glistening in the sunshine. Sadly, the ice cream van wasn’t here although there were one or two cars and a camper van. A gulp of water from my bottle made me cough – sip it next time.

My cycle computer showed six miles and an average speed of twelve point nine miles per hou r– given I only had twenty-seven miles on the thing altogether, the seven I’d just done at tortoise speed – I wasn’t too worried about my average. I hadn’t ridden regularly for months.

I couldn’t remember how many miles the other bike had done, but I thought it was nine or ten thousand, it was a few years old. When I bought it, the guy in the shop thought I was a woman, so I was okay buying a ladies bike. Getting the colour I wanted, now that was something else and it cost me another two hundred – as a bribe I think to Scott, who were actually quite good when I communicated with them personally.

To think that much loved machine is now in a landfill somewhere, or the bits of it are. Sometimes I think cycling is dangerous, then I remember what joy I get from it. The struggle up the hill for the whizz down the other side, makes everything so worthwhile. When you are careering down a hill in excess of forty miles an hour – sometimes ten or twenty miles on top of that – it is total adrenalin. One small mistake and you are off and the only query is what is going to break first – you or the bike? Tarmac rash at that speed is going to strip the meat off the bones. So why do I do it? Same reason people climb mountains or bungee jump –the emotion is real and intense.

Another pull on my bottle and then I set off across the downs turning back down towards home a couple of miles further on. I was pumping the pedals hard as I went up and down the switchback across the top of the ridge, then turned off left and cranking up the gears, went for the descent. Geez, this thing can fly or wants to, and I’m having difficulty keeping the front wheel on the deck. Whoops – that pothole nearly had me off. Yippee – fifty five miles an hour, I am now in the big chain ring and the eleven toothed small one on the back–my legs are screaming with the effort – fifty seven – eight – nine – shit, I can’t do it.

Overtook a car, he’s still twitching – didn’t see me coming screaming down behind, whoops – that was close, he didn’t see me either – what is he – friggin’ colour blind? And he was coming up the bloody hill.

I am frozen – the wind resistance is like a freezer – I’ve heard stories that the famous Indurain, used to take magazines or newspapers from spectators on the tops of mountains and shove them down his jumper for the descents – stop the cold wind. I am shivering now and my nipples look like – well use your imagination. I wonder if Nicole Cooke has this problem?

Brrr, it’s damned cold even in the sunshine, I change down into a more realistic gear – on the flat, I can hardly turn the pedals in that maximum gear. I push the pace to try and warm myself, my legs don’t approve but the rest of me feels more comfortable and I’m churning out a steady twenty-two – not bad for someone well out of practice and probably, a reasonable race speed for women on a hilly course.

As the urban sprawl of Portsmouth approaches I turn off towards Tom’s house and I see it – the 4x4, parked in a lay-by. Is it the same one or am I paranoid? I’m shivering again and I don’t think it’s the wind this time. The point is, have they seen me? Oh shit – yeah, after seeing that I probably need one.

I’m two miles from home – how much is left in the tank? I drop to racing crouch – not my favourite stance on a bike, it hurts my neck after a while and my boobs get in the way – and go for it.

Twenty-two becomes twenty-four touching five at times, my back is hurting and my legs are moving jellies and I have a bit of a hill to get up yet. I glance behind. Oh shit, the Range Rover is pulling out and following me.

Two miles is a long way in this sort of situation. I try to get my legs to go faster, I feel so exposed – it’s gaining on me – bugger, my legs are seizing up. I unclip and pull off the road, my legs can barely hold me up. I feel sick and up comes my breakfast.

I glance up and the car is moving towards me, I’m standing on the grass verge, there is nowhere to go, behind me an impenetrable hedge of hawthorn and probably a barbed wire fence behind it, in front of me a couple of feet of grass and the kerb. Is this it? Is this how I’m going to die crushed by a large car against a hedgerow?

I throw up again, the car is speeding up – at least it’ll be quick. My legs are shaking and my stomach hurls again, only the bike is holding me upright my legs feel so shaky.

I think the most ridiculous thoughts, like: this skin suit is brand new and given to me by Simon – how dare you damage it? My anger gives me strength, my brain begins to work again and my legs stop shaking.

As the car closes in on me, I throw myself on the bike and ride straight across the road, it swerves at me but then has to swerve back because of the truck coming the other way. I ride straight into a gateway and throw myself off the bike and over it hitting the ground with a thump. A scream of brakes follows and while I’m lying there trying to ascertain if I’ve broken anything, I hear footsteps and a voice yelling obscenities at me. “What the ***king hell are you playing at you stupid sod?”

I lift myself to my feet to face my abuser. It’s the lorry driver. He notices that I’m female. “Look I know women drivers are crap, looks like women cyclists are too, what are you playing at, I coulda killed you?”

I burst into tears, “That other car was trying too, that’s why?”

“What the 4x4?” he asked suddenly quieter.

“Yes, it tried yesterday.”

“Have you told the cops?”

“Yes.”

“Where you gotta go?”

“About a couple of miles up the road.”

“Can you take the front wheel off this thing – geez, it’s light, innit?”

I clamber over the fence and notice, I’ve ripped the back of my shirt –Simon will kill me. The lorry driver helps me down the other side.

“You sure he was trying to kill ya?”

“As sure as I can be without letting him do it.”

“Come on, let’s get you and this thing in the cab, I’ll run you home.”

“I’ll probably be alright now.”

“No way, get in the cab.”

I took off the front wheel and he hefted me and then the bike up into his warm cab, then he clambered up the other side. “I’ll go up to the roundabout and turn round, you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I lied, I felt awful.

“You look like shit, luv,” he said as he started off and back onto the road.

“What’s happened?” asked Simon as the lorry backed into our drive. When I emerged from the cab all tattered and torn, he was going to complain then realised I was likely to be torn inside the shirt. “Geez-uz, Cathy, have you come off again – it’s no good, you are banned from cycling.”

“Here, matey,” called the driver handing down my bike, “light innit?”

“What happened?” asked Simon, putting the bike down so he could put his arm around me.

“Some bugger in a Range Rover tried to run her down – she’s got loads a bottle that one.”

Simon invited him in and asked that he give a statement to the police. The man declined. Simon told him he could force him, to which the man replied – next time he’d leave me there. He told us he had a delivery to make and Simon offered him money for his trouble. He refused and I thanked him with a peck on the cheek.

“Gotta go, running late now,” with that he climbed back into his cab and drove off.

“A real knight of the road,” I said as Simon helped me back into the house.

“Sounds if you were lucky, kiddo.”

“Yeah, luckier than the shirt you gave me.”

“Hmm, I think I’d rather see the shirt torn than you.”

“I might be able to mend it, darling.”

“Come on in and have a cuppa, while I call the police.”