Hissy Fit

By Glen Donaldson

Sssssssssssssssssssss.

Lenny Harris knew that sound like he recognised the sound of his own daughter’s voice. Air escaping from the front tire of a bicycle was never a good thing. Especially never good when you were here, where he was. A funny feeling was already beginning to creep up his leg.

Lenny, whose cycling buddies knew him by the moniker ‘The Flash’ – meant ironically – due to his ‘leisurely’ (turtle slow) pedalling speed, reliably guaranteeing others had to wait for him for long periods at the top of every hill – was now beginning to appreciate the full extent of his predicament.

Miles from nowhere on a winding stretch of country road with green meadows either side, he’d long since separated from the rest of the pack and found himself pedalling alone. With a light rain beginning to fall, Lenny dismounted his trusty iron horse and inspected the tire.

Flatter than a three-day old opened soft drink, there was no nail or glass shard left embedded in the wheel. Whatever had caused the puncture was still by the roadside, somewhere. Lenny always carried a patch-repair kit, so there would be no problem there. Then, an all-too-familiar image of his wife rolling her eyes entered his head. He realized he’d forgotten to attach his air-pump, despite reminders from her the night before.

He hadn’t restocked on Co2 cannisters for several months either. Not since he’d gotten into a bicker over inflated prices with the hipster – or ‘new age traveller’ as he liked to refer to such types – down at his local bicycle shop. That meant he was also out of luck there for a source of air to reinflate the tire. 

He considered the idea of flagging down a passing car but recalled there had been none in either direction for some time. That left him with one option – blowing air into the tire with his mouth.

Huffing and puffing for close to an hour, wizened-faced Lenny sat cross legged by the side of the road, pausing only to issue the occasional curse word and wipe drips of sweat from his brow, mixed invisibly with the continuing drizzle rain, while slowly resuscitating the tire back to life. 

When he was done, he stood triumphantly, refilling his lungs with deep breaths of pure country air. Lenny knew the rest of the group would be gathered ahead at Flame Tree Falls, their meet-up point, another 15 or so kilometres up the road. No doubt they would be wondering where he’d gotten to. 

The grey-haired ‘Flash’ pedalled on with the renewed energy that comes when problems are solved. Legs on automatic, the spokes of his wheels soon blurred as he accelerated into, what was for him, a handy speed. With the rain stopped, his eyes once again were allowed to bath in everything the countryside palette had to offer. The joys and freedom of the open road were his… again.

Sssssssssssssssssssss.

Glen Donaldson knows that when you cross a writer with a deadline you sometimes get a really clean house. His on-line ‘house’ is really more a shack – SCENIC WRITER’S SHACK to be precise.