by Victor Allen
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A dogged chill lacing the gray dawn and rain tapping on the windowpanes awoke Richard the next morning. It wasn’t precisely a rainy day, but a day filled with soggy drizzle, the kind of weather that douses the flame you had kindled for the day and makes you want to curl up in your snug house with a good book. Something by P.G. Wodehouse or Shirley Jackson.
Around noon, a little sleet began to fall, mixed with the drizzle. That was a little unusual since any kind of frozen precipitation in Ashton was almost unheard of until at least mid-November and here it was a bare three weeks into October. The weather prophet on channel 2 ominously warned of freezing rain and issued a stern traveler’s advisory.
Richard walked around his bike in the freezing rain, looking at the back tire. He almost grimaced. It was so badly worn that the steel belts showed through in some spots like zebra stripes. Parts of any kind were difficult to get for the bike, and Richard decided it was time to grow up and get a “fambly” car. Not that he would get rid of the bike, oh, no, but it might be time to put it into mothballs except for special occasions. Surprisingly, the thought didn’t really bother him.
It’ll get me there. It hasn’t let me down yet and it’s only a few miles.
And the dangerous motorcycle delivered him safely to the clinic without a bump or hiccup. It was something totally unforeseen and seemingly as innocent as a kitten’s scratch that took him out.
