When she celebrated her ten thousandth mile on a sunny fall evening, there was no one around but the crackled brown leaves, Elvis, and dusty wind. The pink bike squeaked and needed oil, unheeded for amidst the music. She stopped for a minute, looked around, set her rock-hard calves back on the pedals and sped, background scored.
She cried a hundred wind-swept tears, lining her cheeks in salty war-marks. Panting up the elevation, she rode. Gunshots in the air, half-dead geese plummeting faster than their plumes. Sunny, warm turtles drip back into the river, offended. The wind zzzed, plunging like chunks of wood between her tire-spokes. Rain felled monsters washed all, a hated, controversial water colour canvas.
Two blocks east of shelter, there was a little explosion. Blip. In an insignificant little bubble, the front tire fell and breathed off, dropping her at a friendly puddle swish swash. She reached for her Elvis machine love and shoved it into her bodice, hugged her bike and walked. The puddle in her sneakers.
The door slammed bam. And she stood in the doorway, the howling rain in her soaked gray hair, stapled to her head. She wheeled in, the front tire sagging liposucked, and felt for her heart, tapped the radio on its head until it swung back to life and doled out the Jailhouse Rock in baby vomits. She turned back to me and grinned.