Escapism

‘Stewart anvallen!’

‘Stewart attaque!’

‘Stewart attacks!’

Up the road was my district. No need to glance at the start sheet to know I was racing.  My heart was the master, but sometimes it couldn’t keep up.

Tough times transpired, but the toughest occurred when no one was there to watch.

My hardest day had impeccable beginnings.

Dad left for work, slamming the door behind him. Roused by the shutting, I soaked in the sunlight melting through the curtains. The perfect summer morning had a golden glow.

The sun shines brighter when you are 16 and enslaved to revision.

Today it was irresistible.

I was going for a bike ride.

Ferris Bueller traps set, I departed for the ride of a lifetime. A great man once said,

‘Never let a good education ruin a great cycling adventure.’

Azure skies smiled down upon me, as I pedalled the teenage kicks out of my life. Heading away from Newtownards, a tremendous tailwind whisked me towards freedom. Cadence climbed and speed surged, as I clocked up the kilometres.

Spying southern showers, I swung left at Kircubbin, to loop back and head home.

A wet bike can be detected.

A puddled garage can be detected.

Detection was to be prevented at all costs.

I caped-up.

Or tried to.

An opportunity to practice the mobile application of waterproofs. Plucking coat out of pocket, I got to work on wearing it. Inside out, the first task was readying it for installation. Pulling the sleeves out, I proceeded with the conclusive slipping-on of apparel. Surrounding hedgerows whirled in excitement, holding the wind back from disrupting the ceremony. One arm in, the other en route, the deed was nearly done…

And then everything went wrong.

They say one doors closes, another opens.

In this case, a closed gate had created a field opening. A field opening which invited forceful crosswinds to snatch my front wheel away from me.

I was helpless to nature’s barbarism: arms trapped in a waterproof straight jacket, I crashed onto the tarmac. Wrists, chest, knees, face; I slammed into the ground.

My day in paradise swiftly went to shit.

Pathetically twisted, I probed for a neural response. Messages hurtled back in horrific haste, as pain invaded my body.

In a moment, I had cascaded from euphoric enigma to arthritic sloth.

Worse was yet to come.

Money doesn’t rule the world, but it can buy you a taxi home.

Departing the house, I’d disregarded this principle. Capes, bananas, optimism had been abundantly stocked, but not money. There was no quick way home.

Pride was in my blood; it didn’t need to be packed. It prevented me from calling Dad, explaining the situation, so he would leave work and come to my rescue.

Pride was going to overhaul pain and get me home.

Hauling myself onto a completely functional bike, thanks to human-cushioning, I pondered my next move. Cracking my wrists in the right direction, I thought about which way the crow would go home.

Sickening realisation came upon me.

My route was a U-shaped peninsula.

I was at the U’s bottom.

I was the longest possible distance away from home.

I was fucked.

A foreboding fifty kilometres approached. Opting for following my tail, I doubled back towards home.

The gale, gratified to launch me towards Portaferry, now fought to keep me there. Pedalling into the gust, I resisted the wind’s change in mood. Twelve miles-per-hour into a block head involved more power than a tailwind, and my body felt it. My hands shook, as my wrists struggled to recover from the earlier impact. My knee swelled, reminding me of its hardship with every pedal stroke.

Forty kilometres elapsed, and I’d felt every one of them.

The wind died down as I hit the towpath, but I barely noticed. My body was on red alert, aching from all areas.

Vision blurred as I soldiered on, bloodied from head-to-toe. A now-ripped raincoat, hid the majority of collateral damage.

But Mother Nature had not finished.

The wind had died down for a reason. Black clouds glared down, before spitting out thousands of icy globules in my direction. Wind had had its moment, now it was hail’s turn.

Red alert flickered to mayday, as my heart begged me to stop. My brain knew this wasn’t an option. I continued the mission, in a scene of desperation, determined to see my front door again.

Beckoning over my hysterical self, was my beautiful front door:

‘Congratulations on your victory, Daniel,’ the Front Door praised, ‘but remember, it’s half three, and you don’t want your cover to be blown! Hide the evidence.’

Nodding at my orders, I hobbled to the garage. Dusting down the bike with a dry sponge to prevent puddling and evidence, completed the perfect crime.

After a shower and outfit change, I was happy to learn all my wounds could be hidden under clothes.

Four o’clock came, and Mum walked in.

Greeting her calmly at my desk, I performed an Oscar-worthy of studying show.

They’ve never noticed the scars on my wrists.