Cycle of Futility
I’m riding my bike to work; whizzing past stationary cars. I’m going to be on time. There’s the boss Mr Frank parking his white Range Rover right outside the building, he’ll pay £20 a day for that space. What the hell! I’m suddenly lying in the road on my side, a car swerves to avoid me. Mr Frank stands over me; ‘Sorry, Grant, didn’t see you there,’ he says cheerfully, closing his car door and picking up my bike, ‘it’s a bit dangerous cycling on the road; people open their doors without looking. At least you’re on time.’
Discovered a cycle path, bit of a longer route, but I’m careering along, in a space just for me. No cars, no chance of being doored. Round a corner I go and I’m down, face in the gravel. There’s a terrier and extendable lead wrapped round my bike. I get to my feet and the dog owner punches me in the face. I detach the animal from my bike and run for it – I can’t ride because the chain’s come off. I turn up with stone imprints on my face, oily hands and a black eye.
‘Not a good look, Grant!’ shouts Mr Frank as he emerges from his 4x4 unscathed, ‘at least you’re on time.’
Trying the pavement today, taking it easy, ringing my bell as I pass an old couple. There’s a shout, I look over my shoulder. The elderly lady has collapsed. I go to help immediately, only for the old man’s walking stick to ricochet off the side of my helmet.
‘You’ve given her a heart attack!’ he yells, hitting me again, ‘sneaking up behind us like that and then ringing your bell! Menace!’
I jump back on my bike and pedal for it, sick with guilt.
They’ve opened the new bike lane. This is truly where I belong. Alongside the buses and cars, away from the pedestrians. Suddenly my face is in the back of a bus, my front wheel buckled and my helmet broken. The driver grabs me by the collar; ‘What the fuck were you doing? There’s a bus stop ‘ere! Look where you’re going!’
I can’t reply, there’s blood pouring from my mouth and my front teeth are loose. He shakes his head and drops me in the cycle lane. I arrive at work covered in black diesel dust and blood.
‘I’d give up if I were you,’ advises Mr Frank as he emerges pristine from his Range Rover.
I spend the day miserably texting Ellie. She sends me a link – a water bike, cycling’s new frontier! I order one by express delivery.
This is so civilised, peacefully pedalling along the river to work. No cars, pedestrians, buses, dogs … What the hell! Passing close to me, engine roaring is a speedboat. Its wake wave hits me and I capsize, just as the river ferry appears. I swim for it only to see my water bike get caught in the ferry’s undertow and dragged down to be mangled in its engines. I arrive at work soaking, shivering and covered in water weeds, my work clothes at the bottom of the river.
‘Do try to be more presentable, Grant,’ says Mr Frank, climbing out of his all wheel drive.
There is a box waiting for me at home, a note attached to it.
‘You really can buy anything off the internet these days, even extra-terrestrials! Here is the solution to your problems, love Ellie xxx’
In the morning, I place him in the basket of my newly repaired road bike. He sits wrapped in a white blanket, muttering and juddering as I pedal into the middle of the road, among the cars and lorries. Horns blare. Sensing danger, E.T. does his thing and we’re suddenly flying, above road, river, pavement and cycle path, flying on my bike to work! Far below I can see Mr Frank’s white Range Rover in traffic, I’m going to get to the office before him. There it is below. Suddenly, a drone flies directly at us, I try to steer to avoid it, but it catches E.T. directly in the head, rendering him unconscious. The bike tips and E.T. and I are falling. My outstretched hands grasp the guttering of the office roof and hold on for dear life. I watch E.T. hit the pavement with a whack and Mr Frank’s white Range Rover drive over his lifeless body as he parks. My bike has landed on top of the bike rack. Mr Frank emerges and looks up; ‘What are you doing up there, Grant? At least you’re on time.’