Rider in the rye – a short story

Life in the Bike Lane

Tom Frady

He kept the bike in the living room after the crash.

At first, it made sense. There was plenty of space in the living room and he told visitors – fewer and fewer of them, now – it was only temporary. The frame leaned against the wall like a patient animal, wiped clean. He checked the pressure in the tires frequently by just giving them a squeeze as he walked by on his way to the kitchen. The smell of rubber and chain lube mixed with coffee and dust. It felt better to see it there, black and “shock yellow.” “GIANT” in bold letters on the downtube. Whole and unbroken, unlike him.

The doctor had been careful to use words with flexible meanings. Time. Healing. We don’t know yet.

Those words were useless to a man who measured his life in miles.

Before that bronze sedan, his days had shape. Morning light and the click of cleats. He knew the exact grade percent of every hill in a 20-mile radius. On that Giant, his legs spoke the language of cadence. Riding wasn’t exercise. It was proof. Proof that he could still meet the world head-on and survive.

The car changed all that in one sound made by carbon fiber, steel and bone, a sound he replayed endlessly. Sometimes, it arrived uninvited, a phantom noise while he stared at the ceiling at 3:24 in the morning. Other times, he summoned it on purpose, squeezing the bruise, reminding himself why he hurt.

“You love it when I’m broken.”

He tried to replace riding. Walking, first. Then swimming. He even put another bike on a trainer in the garage. A laughable lampoon of locomotion, all effort and no progress. He lasted just a few minutes before abandoning the idea.

Soon, he stopped going outside. He could hear cyclists passing by on the other side of the back wall. They passed in pairs or packs – he could easily picture the bright jerseys and hear the easy laughter. He probably knew most of them. He knew their schedule. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. 8:00. He began to narrate under his breath, calling out an imaginary cadence, offering silent corrections. Too hard a gear for that climb. Relax your shoulders. Breathe. Car back!

At night, he sometimes polished the bike.

It didn’t need polishing. He did it anyway. He spoke to it while he worked, soft encouragements, apologies. He apologized for being slow. For being weak. For failing to protect them both.

Then the dreams started. In them, he rode an endless downhill. His legs were strong again. Wind roared in his ears, erasing thoughts, visions. He always woke just before the bottom, heart racing, mouth tasting of speed. Waking felt like hitting the ground. Again.

Reality shrank. Days blurred. The bike became his center. He ate beside it. Slept within arm’s reach. When his friend visited, she suggested – gently – maybe the bike could go back to the garage.

He screamed at her.

After she left, he wept, clutching the top tube like a lifeline.

One afternoon, he heard the group ride by. The sound rose up to him – echoing through the neighborhood in that odd way sounds echo through the neighborhood. Something in his chest snapped, clean and quiet.

He put on his helmet.

The buckle felt comforting under his chin. He lifted the bike, his body screaming in protest, and opened the door. He took one step, then another, dragging himself outside.

Outside, sunlight hit the frame, and for a moment – just a moment – everything aligned. Road. Rider. Resolve.

He swung a leg over and fell.

At home, the living room looked wrong without the bike. Empty. As if the room itself had lost its balance and was slowly, quietly, tipping over.

“A lot of people, especially this one psychoanalyst guy they have in here, keep asking me if I’m going to ride again. It’s such a stupid question, in my opinion, I mean, how do you know what you’re going to do until you do it? The answer is, you don’t. I think I am, but how do I know? I swear it’s a stupid question.”