The Accidental Cyclist

Smashwords edition

Copyright © Dennis Rink 2013

ISBN
9780957580619 (Smashbooks edition)

Dennis Rink asserts the moral
right to be identified as author of this work.

This novel is entirely a work of
fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work
of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or to events, is entirely coincidental. Most of the
places referred to do exist.

Follow Icarus Smith’s progress
on Facebook and Twitter.

The author’s blog:
www.live-cycle.com

published by

[email protected]

To Pam, who has put up with far
more than she ought to, and who has always supported me in this
venture, whether I be out riding my bike, in writing my book, or
just sitting there staring into space, neither in nor out.

To Caroline and Matthew, who
were probably never quite sure that I would ever finish this
project (a bit like decorating the house). Well, I’ve done it, so
there! Now get on your bikes and go for a ride.

And to Caroline (again) for her
wonderful cover design.

*

Author’s note: No bicycles were
intentionally stolen, harmed, cannibalised or otherwise damaged by
the author during the production of this book, and no policemen
lost their teeth either.

Daedalus set to work to
construct wings from feathers and wax for himself and his young
son, Icarus. When the work was done, Daedalus taught his son how to
fly, as a bird tempts her young ones from the nest into the air.
When all was ready he said, "Icarus, my son, keep at a moderate
height, for if you fly too high the sun will melt your wings. Keep
near me and you will be safe."

Icarus Smith knew he would
never fly. Like his namesake in Greek mythology, Icarus had no idea
where life’s journey would take him. But one thing he did know for
sure: his feet would never leave Mother Earth, he would never soar
close to the sun. He would never know the freedom of flying.

Icarus was so named because his
father, a Greek, was called Dedalus. Icarus had never met his
father. One day, about a month before the boy was born, Dedalus had
hopped onto his bicycle, kissed the heavily pregnant Miss Smith
goodbye, and pedalled off, to work, or wherever, never to return.
As a result, Icarus’s mother had a severe aversion to bicycles, and
she often warned the boy about the dangers of cycling.

“Bicycles don’t look at all
dangerous,” young Icarus had often protested.

“That is because they are so
craftily designed,” the doting mother whispered into the boy’s
innocent ear, “they lull you into a false sense of security.” For
that is exactly what had happened to her. Dedalus had seduced her
by cycling circles around her as she walked down the road from
work, sweet talking, singing her praises, pleading with her and,
finally, she was persuaded to allow him to take her for a ride on
his bicycle. It wasn’t the last time that he took her for a
ride.

“Your father let me sit on his
crossbar …” she would begin telling the young Icarus, before
lapsing into some sweet reverie. Icarus would watch his mother
gazing into the dreamy distance and realise she was on a journey
into a wondrous past, and would not be back for some time. At such
a young age he knew nothing about bicycles. He had no idea what a
crossbar might be – was it the opposite of a happy bar? He wondered
for a moment if it might be some kind of euphemism, but then
realised he had no idea what a euphemism was and so, like a
crumpled slip of paper, he cast that thought aside, already
forgotten, into the waste basket in some cobwebbed corner of his
unformed mind.

Unlike his mother, who always
needed to know absolutely everything about everything, especially
everything that did not matter, Icarus was curious in an innocent,
unquestioning way. He was always happy to ask the
what?
but
never the
why?
or
wherefore?
– two different
questions that are essentially the same. When, while very young, he
had asked his mother about his father’s whereabouts, he was
answered with a simple, straight-forward, seven-word statement: “He
left us before you were born.” Icarus felt no compulsion to ask the
natural follow-up question of why (his mother honestly did not know
why – it was a question she had been asking herself ever since he
had gone). Nor did Icarus ask where his father had gone (ditto the
parentheses above) – Dedalus had gone, and that was all there was
to it. And so Icarus was brought up isolated, trapped on an island
of his mother’s making, never venturing out into the world. His
idle hours were spent gazing from the big bay window in the front
room of their flat. From there he could look out over the park
across the road, a sea of many greens that flourished and faded
with the seasons. Beyond that ocean was the City of London, a huge
continent of skyscrapers rising high into the sky. To Icarus that
was another country, another world that he could only dream of,
should he wish to dream such dreams. He had no desire to escape
this maternal prison. He had no father to create wings of desire,
of passion, of curiosity with which to fly, to flee, to escape this
tower of motherly love.

Motherly love was not the only
thing that Icarus had to contend with in his growing years. His
mother had many phobias, which she tried to pass on to her
offspring as if it were his genetic heritage. Because of her brief
encounter with Dedalus, chief among these phobias was bicycles. All
through his early years Icarus heard everything there was to know –
or imagine – about the pitfalls and problems associated with
cycling. “Potholes can swallow a wheel in one big gulp,” was one
helping of advice that Icarus was regularly served along with his
supper. Then, dished up for dessert: “Beware the bicycle chain;
they chew up trousers.”

The growing Icarus swallowed
these titbits of information without digesting them, and so they
filtered into his being and infused his beliefs. In this way his
mother instilled in him a fear of bicycles, and all that they
represented.

Icarus lived close to
everything that he needed in life – school, shops, library,
doctor’s surgery – so it was easy for his mother to steer him clear
of all forms of transport, but he had heard the saying “know your
enemy” and, unknown to his mother, he began surreptitiously to
learn all there was to know about bicycles. While other boys of his
age were stealing comics and smutty magazines from the top shelf of
the newsagent, Icarus was plundering the sports section, stuffing
his shirt with cycling magazines. And that was how he learnt almost
all there is to know about the mechanics and lore of mankind’s most
fascinating and enduring invention.

The life-changing shift in
Icarus’s relationship with bicycles – and his mother – came on a
summer’s day just before his sixteenth birthday. Miss Smith was at
work and, it being the start of the school holidays, she had told
young Icarus, as usual, to remain inside the flat and not answer
the door to anyone. Most of Icarus’s life had been spent alone,
inside the flat, not answering the door to anyone. On this hot
summer’s day he had flung open the big bay windows that overlooked
the park, a place where seldom had he ventured unchaperoned. He sat
in the big leather armchair, an unread book on his lap, staring at
the carpet that filled the parlour floor. Icarus thought of it as
his magic carpet: a tapestry of interwoven tropical plants with
tentacles entwined, a mass of writhing greenery with no beginning
or end. This shrubbery was a haven for birds, some common or
garden, many rare and exotic, and they peeped through the foliage
as it swayed lazily on a breeze that occasionally whispered through
the open window. Every time Icarus looked at the carpet he saw
something different. If he watched carefully, he could see
swallows, kingfishers, nightingales, chaffinches and quails.
Occasionally there would be a peacock, or a bird of paradise, and
once, he was sure, he saw a chameleon that seemed to have the head
of a stoat. On quiet days, if he listened very carefully, Icarus
could hear the birds singing, chirping tunes so divine that he
thought this must be heaven.

Today, in the stifling heat, he
could see no birds, hear no chirping. What he did hear was an
excited chatter. It was not birdsong, but the sound of pubescent
voices, and their noise seemed to summon him to the window. There,
in the park, he caught sight of a tight knot of boys. He gave no
regard to the noise, and the boys, until he saw what it was that
held their attention, and that, in turn, captured his.

Often Icarus’s mother had told
him, don’t talk to strange boys, but today he wasn’t bothered about
the boys, strange or otherwise. The only thing that Icarus saw was
the shiny, unusual racing cycle that was the centre of their
attention. After no more than a moment’s hesitation, and contrary
to all his mother’s careful instructions, he left the flat, crossed
the road and went into the park.

At the core of the group
admiring the bike were three boys who were clearly the main players
in this scenario. One was bigger than the others, not tall, but
stocky, like a young bullock. His manner clearly indicated that he
was The Leader. His lieutenant was shorter, squatter, with ginger
hair. The third, almost dwarf-like, had spotty cheesegrater cheeks
that told volumes about poor diet and impoverished hygiene.

Icarus went up to the group and
stood there, taller than the rest, looking over their heads. He
could see the racing bike clearly now and all his expectations were
confirmed. The bicycle had a most unusual frame – it lacked the
dominant triangle that forms the basic structure of a regular
racing cycle. Instead it had a single top-tube, no down-tube, and
the seat-post was stepped. The delicate red, white and blue decals
were the final confirmation – the bicycle was a Condor Paris
Galibier, an elegant single-speed machine. He had recently read
about it, one of the most desirable two-wheelers, and to buy one he
would need more than his mother earned in a couple of months.

Now, Icarus was not used to
talking to groups of boys, especially groups of strange boys, but
his interest had been aroused, and he forgot his mother’s
instructions, and her disdain for what she called the hoi polloi,
the common herd.

“Nice bike you’ve got there.”
Icarus heard the words as if someone else had spoken them, but he
knew it was his own voice. He seemed to have addressed no one in
particular. “Where did you get it?”

“Bought it,” said The
Leader.

“Gee,” Icarus heard himself say,
“it’s such a beautiful bike. Can I ask how much it cost you?”

“Fifty quid.”

Icarus, for all his innocence,
knew that such a bike would cost much, much more than that, and he
tried to give the boy a slightly dubious look. Never for one moment
did it occur to Icarus that the boy might have stolen the bike.

“He never bought it,” said
Gingerhead in a concerted attempt to shatter Icarus’s illusion of
innocence. “He never buys anything.”

“Wanna buy it?” asked The
Leader, trying to head off any awkward questions at the pass. “It’s
yours for just 45 quid.”

For the first time in his life
Icarus found himself in a position of superiority, a situation
where he knew more than the next person. He looked at the bicycle
for a few moments, then, quite nonchalantly, informed the
gathering: “This bike,” he said, “is a Condor Paris Galibier, and
if you bought it new it would cost in excess of two thousand
pounds. Of course, this model appears to be a vintage, so it could
be worth a lot more than that.”