The Cyclist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Another addition to the people watching series...

Your story starts on Wellington Terrace, two roads down from Evergreen Gardens. Before that, I can’t see you. You turn the corner onto the street, pushing your bike. Your face is surrounded by loose hair flyaways, so I assume you’ve cycled this far, but at 7:32 am, you’re walking, and as you look at the three story residential buildings that surround you, a wave of self disappoint washes through you. Each house is at least 4 times the size of your own cramped and badly lit estate flat.

 

Caught up in your usual moment of thoughts and worry, at precisely 7:39 am, every single morning, you forget about the pothole between number 23 and 25 Wellington Terrace, and you are yanked out of your thoughts as your old bike judders, dropping into the gravely pit. You stop momentarily to haul it out, sighing the sigh you sigh at this time every morning.

 

After trudging another 52 steps, to the corner where Pratley Street meets Wellington Terrace, you stop. At this point, I momentarily lose sight of you because you climb back on your bike, and plunge into the jungle of cars. And at 7:55 am, almost exactly 47 steps away from the front door of the tall steel and glass building you work in, you jump off your bike, quickly tearing away from the raging river of the early morning city traffic on Evergreen Gardens, and position it up against the lamppost outside ‘Mac’s Newsagents’.

 

No less than a minute later, at 7:56, you look up from locking up your bike as the tall man with the worn denim jacket and guitar slung over his left shoulder, flicking the strands of hair, blown by the wind out of his dark eyes, walks by on the other side of the road.

 

Two minutes later, after you fumble about with your lock, the coldness of the wind biting your fingertips, making it hard to unravel the coil, supposedly keeping your bike from being stolen (having failed to do so in the past), you look up, tiredly blowing at the flyaways that frame your face. You are now facing the row of shops that were once behind you, and you catch the young boy behind the counter of the newsagents staring at you. You turn, shaking your head, a small smile playing across your lips once again, and make your way towards your office block.

 

47 steps later, you nod at the security guard stood outside the gleaming glass door, cradling a small cup of coffee, as he mumbles good morning to you.

 

Opening the door for yourself, your bike helmet swinging idly in your fingers, you step into the glistening world of central London’s journalism hub and take a deep breath in as the artificial warmth of the entrance hall smothers you.


Submitted: September 20, 2015

© Copyright 2022 soranena. All rights reserved.

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