Coursing through the streets on my flat-tired bike and I'm not avoiding cars, they're avoiding me. I'm not turning corners, they're turning me. My legs are pumping and I can't even feel them, I can only feel the wind in my hair, the grit in my teeth. The midge in my eye.
I'm faster than lightning and I know it, I'm not racing the clock, I'm racing the rain, I'm racing buildings, I'm racing the air. I'm racing my own clothes, and I'm almost winning, I'm almost there, lactic acid bubbling over my knees and undone laces, legs pumping like pistons in the fiery engine of a machine made of girl and bike, bike and girl, hands fusing to the handlebars, hair fusing with the air.
Then I got hit by a tram,
In my mind's eye but I was too fast for it, too fast for blood and pain and broken bones,
too fast for dying.
(Can you get pulled over for drunk cycling?)
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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