The Drop

Sometimes it seems that time is not on my side. This is a tale of what can happen when you are in a rush. (Once again must be read in a Clint Eastwood voice through gritted teeth for best effect).

Just bombed down the shops for supplies. It was hot, damned hot.
The traffic was sluggish and mean but too slow to catch me as I sailed through tiny gaps between cars. I whipped past some traffic lights just as they turned red and coolly parked up in a side street. I calmly ignored the hoots of rage, squeals of tyres behind me and the double yellow lines I had stopped on.

I chained the back wheel and left the bike quietly smoking away to
itself, which reminded me, I must sort that leak out. In one swift motion I unclipped my helmet, lifted it and nearly shaved my forehead off with my shades. No matter, just call me scar head. I left the lid on.

I strode towards the shop looking good, feel hot with a particularly damp, sweaty patch between my shoulders. All I needed was a birthday card for my other half but in this heat, anything could happen.

The choice of card was simple enough. It was pink, it was fluffy, that's all I need to know. The old woman on the till looked at me and then looked at the card. She looked at me again and smiled.

"Birthday," I said

"Yes dear, that will be ninety pence."

I hated that. I was dressed in black from head to foot looking like Marvin Gaye's stunt double. I had grooves in my forehead. I'm wearing shades in a dark shop. I'm almost drowning in my own sweat and she calls me 'dear'. I let it go this time and tossed her a pound coin.

"Would you like a bag dear?"

I gritted my teeth.

"No thanks, I have a Givi panier."

"Oh that's nice dear," she said, smiled and gave me ten pence change. Have you ever tried to hold ten pence in your hand when you're wearing bike gloves. Let me tell you, it wasn't easy. I watched the coin plummet to the floor and dissappear under some shelves. Once again, ladies and gentlemen, it was toys out of the pram
time.

"Oh I don't believe it, I just hate it when that happens, I think I want my mummy."

I was about to stamp my foot when the old lady gave me another ten pence.

"Never mind dear, I'll dig it out later," she said.

"Later," I said and stomped out to the Frog.

After dumping the card into the forty five litre panier and locking it down, I jumped on to my patiently waiting steed and started her up. Adopting my usual, if not slightly modified riding style, I hit the revs and dumped the clutch. The frog leapt forward about two feet and stopped dead. Something was wrong! I hauled in the clutch and hit the brake. The Frog was now at a precarious forty
five degree angle to the road. It is at times like this that you start to really appreciate what thirty nine stone actually feels like. Like a hot knife in butter, I slowly keeled over sideways and collapsed in a heap.

"Bugger!" I said to myself as the Frog slowly squashed my trapped foot into the road.

The heavy-duty anti-theft chain which I had locked through the back wheel earlier may have had something to do with my inability to move at vast speeds. My mouth felt like a camels incontinence pants. I cleared my throat, spat and my vision disappeared as the ball of phlegm impacted the inside of the helmet visor.

"Bugger!" I said to myself as the bike continued to explain to me that it was going to be a long day.

I scraped out my visor with my gloved finger, exchanging the spit for a thick film of oil. I must get some new gloves. Things were looking up when a van appeared at the other end of the road. I held my hands up, waved and the van accelerated towards me. I stopped waving and squeaked.

"Squeak." I said and made a mental note to change my trousers when I got home. The van pulled up beside me and the driver jumped out and helped me out of my predicament. We spent a good ten minutes digging out the chain from the back wheel, I shook the drivers hand and saddled up. It was then that I found that my petrol soaked foot was as slippery as a butter soaked kipper doing the lambada. I slipped about like an eel in a fraying pan as I manouvered the bike into launch position. Torvill and Dean would have been proud. Looking back, I nodded at the van driver.

"Adios Amigo," I said through gritted teeth and gunned the bike down the road.