Chapter 2
As the miles quickly passed by, Scott found his rhythm again. He felt a car coming up behind him, close. It was another one of those senses that seem to sharpen for cyclists: the feel of danger before you hear or see it. Although no one else was even on the road, the large cream colored luxury SUV passed within inches of Scott. The asshole blew his horn just as he got beside him. So much for the three feet of clearance required by law, thought Scott. He could also see the top of the guy’s outstretched hand flipping him the bird as he passed. Some drivers did not like sharing the road, especially with bikes. Scott could never understand why. Just another asshole rushing to be somewhere. That was one more reason he loved it down here at the beach; life was slower, less rushed than the city-life he had escaped. He pumped his legs furiously to get exactly nowhere just as fast as he could. Scott always felt invincible out on the bike, much less so when he was off.
Getting close to the beach but still about ten miles from home, he noticed the bike’s GPS was giving an odd reading. He honestly wasn’t sure he’d even restarted it after changing the tire, though he felt pretty confident he had. For whatever reason, though, it was now giving the wrong information. Instead of the total miles, which should have been about fifty by this point, it was reading a hundred-and-twenty-six, then five, then it switched to kilometers. Then the numbers went away and the screen remained blank for a few seconds, the ‘Acquiring Signal’ error flashing. Probably just a dead battery. What had begun as a great ride on a beautiful day was starting to get rather tedious.
He topped a small hill revealing a great view of the wetlands that stretched several miles over to the Gulf of Mexico. This was one of his favorite sections of the ride. Coming down the other side of the hill was another speed stretch where he would be in a full tuck position to minimize wind resistance. Some moments on the ride seemed more like flying than riding.
As he moved to readjust his hand positions on the bars, he caught sight of a jet’s telltale contrail in the distance and could just make out the passenger jet, probably heading to South Florida or maybe even somewhere tropical with its load of late summer vacationers. The normally arrow straight vapor trail emitted by the engines seemed unusually erratic. The closer he looked the more it seemed like the profile of the jet was…well, wrong. Although far away it seemed like he could see more of the jet than was normal… maybe it was just a different angle. As he slowed to watch it also seemed to be descending too quickly toward the horizon. For a second Scott would have sworn it was dropping toward the sea as the contrail suddenly ceased, but the jet appeared to continue on. He assumed it was normal, probably altitude change or something similar. Still he watched with an uneasy feeling as it faded from sight over the sliver of ocean that was visible from here. Immediately dismissing the scene, he dropped back down into the tuck position and began the exhilarating descent.
The last half hour of his ride was uneventful and thankfully involved virtually no traffic. Correction: there was actually no traffic. This was odd; his cottage was not on any of the main roads and this area consisted mainly of weekend cottages and vacation homes, but even now during the late beach season, rentals were high and there should be at least some cars on the road. The few he did see were all parked in the bike lane.
“More fucking rude-ass idiots,” he mumbled. In his opinion, a lot of car drivers, like the guy a few miles back, felt they owned the road and had zero consideration for cyclists.
Getting closer to his home, he heard an unusual siren coming from the direction of town, which then abruptly stopped. Closer to his cottage, Scott's face broke into a grin as he saw the same cream colored SUV on the side of the road with the hood up. A red-faced man in a suit was yelling and gesturing into a cell phone as if to somehow get a signal from an only slightly higher position. Scott now recognized the guy as one of the locals, a developer or maybe a politician. He was not sure he had ever actually known his name. As Scott got close, the guy noticed him and stepped out directly in the path of the bike. “Hey! You got a phone?” the guy yelled angrily.
Scott answered, “Yep…asshole.” With a smile he returned the bird salute to the shocked looking guy and rode past without slowing down.
Getting home, he slipped in the side door to his garage, took a minute to wipe the grime from his beloved bike, and applied a quick mist of oil to the mechanical parts. The salt air in this area could wreak havoc on anything metal, and Scott was a bit obsessive with his bikes. He lifted the Trek onto its stand above his older and noticeably more weathered training bike. He was tired but buoyant from the endorphins the vigorous workout had pumped into his body.
Putting his cycling shoes on the shelf, he climbed the few steps and entered the cottage. Odd, he noticed, there were no sounds—no stereo playing or AC running. Well shit …the power is out. This day is just getting better and better, he thought.
It didn’t make any sense to him… there were no storms such as the area frequently had and that knocked the power off particularly during the hurricane season. Probably some drunken tourist hit a power pole over near town. Although he had no idea how long it had been off, it was already beginning to warm up inside. He stripped off the sweaty Cinelli padded riding shorts and jersey and slipped into some shorts and flip-flops. Scott headed back to the garage, grabbed an icy cold Red Stripe out of the old refrigerator, and went to relax on the back deck. Opening the beer and taking a long and wonderfully satisfying pull, he enjoyed the cooler air in the shade of the oaks as he looked out over the black water canal meandering behind the house. Cypress trees also lined much of the view, each draped with a cloak of Spanish moss. He sat back on the deep padded chaise, which felt good on his tired, over-worked muscles. Scott finished off the beer and closed his eyes.
