The path began to turn to the left and she expertly tilted the handle bars to follow it round. The bike followed suit and she let out another yelp of delight as it did so. She even took the risk of taking one hand off the rubber grips and punched the air, much like the final scene in The Breakfast Club. She retook the handles and didn’t wobble in the slightest.
This was it. This was what she had been waiting for. It was as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.
But that’s where it ended. She could see the path ahead came to an abrupt stop and she knew she’d have to move back onto the grass where the hill began to slope a lot more steeply. She took a deep breath and prepared for the oncoming speed.
As she raced down the hill, she felt an equal mix of exhilaration and terror. She was going far too fast for such a beginner but there was something in her that didn’t want it to stop. For once in her life, she was enjoying the rush of danger.
Her fingers itched over the brakes, but something inside her gut told her to hold off for a little bit longer. Let’s see how fast you can really go before you wimp out.
And it was that thought: the word ‘wimp’ – yet another from Michael’s lexicon – that made her go faster, hurtling down the hill, uncontrollably and in a frenzy.
She was approaching a small bridge where the field she was in joined the next and she knew she had to slow down. There was no way she trusted her dexterity to accurately guide the bike over at this speed.
But as she pressed on the brakes, nothing happened.
She pressed again, a little more strongly this time. Still nothing happened. The bike picked up pace and as it did so, her heart lurched. How had she thought to take the bike home without getting it looked over? Without getting the brakes checked?!
She desperately squeezed the metal levers hoping against hope that she hadn’t done it right the first time, but to no avail. This was an old bike and she’d been naive to assume that because the wheels looked so new, the rest of its parts would also be in equal good nick.
Panic took over and, as she hurtled towards the small gap between the trees, aiming for the small wooden bridge, she did what was probably the worst thing she could do: she closed her eyes.
She’d seen friends do this countless times in cars, when they weren’t sure they could fit through a gap. But she wasn’t in a car now; she was sat atop a small piece of metal. And she wasn’t going at a creeping three miles per hour; it felt as if she were participating in a high-speed Olympic race.
Oh no, she screamed internally – or externally. By this point, she couldn’t tell.
The bike successfully reached the bridge, and she felt the bump as grass meeting wood. If she’d only been able to maintain a hard grip on the handle bars she might have made it over. But, at the relief of not crashing into the trees, Heather loosened her hands which caused the direction to shift just a tad.
As she plummeted into the muddy, two-foot-high water, she caught a glimpse of the sky: what once had been a beautiful blue was now a murky grey.
She landed with a thud, the cold water of the brook shocking her senses. She heard the clang of the bike as it fell, ricocheting of the grassy bank, and a final splash as it landed on top of her in the muddy, probably infested, water.
‘Just my luck,’ she said to herself, as a large droplet of rain landed square on her forehead.
But just as she had resigned herself to lying in the murky waters feeling sorry for herself, she heard a voice: the voice of a man.
‘Well, fancy seeing you here again.’
As she looked up at Mr Russell, she didn’t even feel embarrassed. She just wanted to cry.
Coming soon:
Part 2 of The Vintage Cycling Café!
The Vintage Cycling Cafe 1 Page 7
