The Accidental Cyclist

[Algotezza]

Lite fler skönlitterära fragment från min kurs i Creative Writing våren 2009. En novelld enna gång. Slutversionen av den - om sådana nu finns i ordbehandlarens tidevarv...

Fick VG- (B) på kursen. Om jag nu måste skryta. Och det måste man ju. Ofta...



The Accidental Cyclist

George Oakford had run away from his yellow brick semi-detached home this morning, a bit late, yes, he was fully aware of that, when headed for another day in paradise of work, that special February morning. His wife had been in a terrible, nagging mood, like a furious Xantippa, perpetually asking him if he really was working late that often or if he had a mistress, some young, curvy blond girl in black tights with smooth skin and no wrinkles like she. With his eyes wide shut, with deaf ears, he heard her oral sounds and saw her mouth intensely moving, but he didn’t really listen. He just said yes or no when it fitted according to the tone of her voice, not minding the least the contents of her statements. It had been like being five again, listening to his mother accusing him of something that his younger brother obviously had done, mother’s cute little curly-haired favorite. Mother’s little helper… So unfair! And now this! Always these morning struggles with her bad temper! Those middle-aged women! He knew them too well, from his job, too!

It had been such a relief to George putting his body, trembling in hidden anger, on the saddle of his green military bike, grabbing the solid iron handlebars, looking like a true survivor, but feeling like a little kid. The morning had been crisp and sunny like the imagined mood of the young mistress he of course didn’t have any access to. Though still winter a blackbird had been singing like a falsetto beach boy from a red brick roof top, where the snow still glistened in the pale morning sunshine. Blackbirds singing always reminded him of his childhood and early teens, when it was late springtime or early summer, sitting in grandmother’s garden of Eden, before any Eve, snakes and forbidden fruits, sipping his raspberry soda pop, chewing his hazelnut cookies with great joy. He could still remember the fruity taste of the soda pop and the round, sweet taste of the hazelnut, though he not tasted them since. It was like it had occurred on another planet or at least in another millennium. He looked around, with the blackbird singing still further away. Here and there tiny mirrors of ice on the road reflected the sun beams. The biking trip had initially been a refreshing experience, in total contrast to his wife’s disgusting morning docu soap show, just a few minutes earlier. He just loved cycling, the possibility of getting forward with his own strength, never ever being dependent on other kinds of energy than his muscles. It was just a matter of avoiding flat tires, but in that it art he was a master, by cycling like a slalom skier going downhill in high speed.

There was an important conference starting within only twenty minutes after his leaving the domestic castle, so he had felt forced to take a shortcut after some minutes of pedaling to be sure being in time. He was supposed to be the chairman of the meeting, so he felt a bit nervous while pumping his way up and down the hills of his hometown, but still enjoying the beautiful winter’s day, and the naughty little February wind pinching his cheeks with chilly kisses. Chill made him feel alive.
Just a few minutes and a few hundred meters more and he would be at his destination, safe and sound and – above all – in time for his meeting. He was a master of quick reaction, using his handlebars like a magician, cunningly avoiding all the problems the ground could offer. It was always an inspiring challenge, an act of balancing on the top of his abilities.
There, another icy spot to avoid, and there and there…
And then it happened!

Flying over the handlebars, his nose plowing the asphalt, his knees being almost crushed on the pavement… the normal pace of time was slowing down like a dying snail… He didn’t see his life passing by, but he could think a great deal, locked up in his body moving in slow motion, a body which he didn’t have any access to. He thought: Now, I’m flying over the handlebars, my head firstly reaching the ground, my nose plowing the pavement, my knees very are fast meeting the not too soft surface…
Ouch! Or perhaps Hell! But he had… to… move … on … to … be … in … time… That was hell of a struggle! Feeling half past dead he tried to get back in the saddle, but he couldn’t. Like a dead man walking he started leading his two-wheeled vehicle, but in fact there was no time for that, time again moving on in its normal way… So… he…had… to… get … on … his… bike … again…to … be … in … time…

His nose was streaming with blood like a tap in a vampire kitchen, his knees were hurting, his trousers were torn, and his bloody appearance made him feel like Jesus’ little brother, when he reached his goal, stumbling up the stairs to the front door of the grey brick cube-shaped five-storey building, and then suddenly meeting one of the janitors, a grumpy old man who had been a grumpy old man ever since he was born, thus having developed grumpiness into a noble art of great subtlety.

“Don’t bleed on the newly vacuumed carpet,” the old janitor cried to him in an extremely angry voice, sounding like a male version of his wife and mother, with the morning experience still echoing in his memory. Had it been another day he would just have smiled at the comment from the severely irritated old man, knowing he wasn’t too bright and empathetic, and unable to hold back his grumpiness voluntarily, but today it was too much. Too much when he was bleeding from his nose and knees, when his whole body hurt like hell!
“Can’t you see what state I’m in,” George almost lost his voice. “I’ve had a terrible accident. I’m glad only I was hurt and I didn’t hit any grumpy old man! I’m bleeding, I’m hurt! Can’t you see? Could you please get me the nurse instead of crying like an old witch at me?”
“Huh?” the janitor said rather foolishly, not knowing what to do or say, standing with mouth and eyes wide open, like he had seen the bleeding return of the Master from Nazareth or a light version if him, Diet Jesus. But this man was crucified by his wife and the circumstances of his life.
Little Brother Jesus crippled his way downstairs to the nurse and told the janitor to bring the message of him arriving a bit late to the conference to the other members. They could perhaps start with some formal matters without him…
“Yeah, yeah,” the janitor nodded, pleased with his new mission, but still looking at the red spots on the floor with critical eyes.

The day just flowed away after its dramatic beginning. Female colleagues at the conference pitied him but male ones considered him a geek, not being able to handle a simple vehicle like a bike. The whole day through he felt like a fool, not being able to deal with his working tasks in a proper way.

There was no point in hurrying back home, he thought. Nothing waiting at home could make him cycle faster, as far as he was concerned. And above all, he wasn’t able tot, still feeling like having been beaten up by a gang of nasty drunken old men with their walking sticks. But he was responsible for his state, or partly responsible. There was no human being to blame. Not this time. And that was too bad, he thought. It always comes in handy having someone else to put the blame on for your problems, his wife usually put it!

Now the day was grey, no sun in the sky, no blackbird singing, only the humming sound from the cars, the buses and the big trucks, these ever-lasting sound pollutions. His mind was grey too, painting up the picture of him arriving home, meeting his middle-aged wife, with blame deep as the ocean in her grey green eyes, asking him why he was late again. “Another late meeting?” she would ask in a sarcastic voice. Again he would shut his ears, remaining completely silent. There was nothing to be said, standing in front of the domestic prosecutor and her endless tirades. He knew the whole scenario so well.

He cycled up in front of the house, put his vehicle in their garage and went up to the front door. With his back bent like Quasimodo he opened the door, his body still aching, preparing himself to dive deep down into the bitter sweet pond of male martyrdom. He opened the door and cried out: “I’m home!” – and met the promising scent of new-baked hazelnut cookies… Or was it a due to a slight concussion that morning?
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[Skogsälvan]

Ledsen Algot, men tycker inte (i så fall förstår jag inte att uppfatta det) att du får fram DIG här, även om det var en bra text.

[Algotezza]

Ledsen Algot, men tycker inte (i så fall förstår jag inte att uppfatta det) att du får fram DIG här, även om det var en bra text.

Icke att förundras över när jag inte skriver på mitt första språk, svenska (skånska).

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