"Cyclist"

The tire exploded half a mile outside of Valentine, New Jersey. Skyler stepped over the frame of his ten-speed Schwinn and looked at the line created on the roadside behind him. The New Jersey turnpike was not always nice to him. He reached down, sore from riding, and gathered the rubber remains of his broken bicycle. The sun was creeping over the horizon. He needed to find a bike shop. His solid black tee shirt had a brown stripe imposed over his spine from riding in the mud. He started walking across the highway; nobody was around for as far as he could see. The median was taller than he thought and he struggled lifting his weathered bicycle over the stone separation.

He wondered what the weekend had in store for him, ignoring the fact that his tire was in ruins. He reached into his pocket to feel the cold change contained in the confines of his faded blue jeans. He figured that he had about fifteen dollars in quarters, nickels, and dimes. He had more quarters before he made the phone call back in Philadelphia. The Crystal Water Company had been giving away all expenses paid trips for a weekend in New York City. He finally heard the radio station transmit the message and was the 123^rd caller. Skyler stayed on the pay phone to figure out what he had to do in order to claim his prize. He listened to an automated voice that told him ‘fun facts’ about the radio stations under Crystal Water. After he heard “104.3, The Edge, is your best choice for underground hip-hop” for the fourth time, he realized that they were neither facts nor fun: Just useless numbers and statistics. But those numbers gave him an introduction to New York City. He finally left Philadelphia after two years of squatting and finding the odd job here or there. He was on a new road.

He walked away from the highway with his bicycle over his shoulder. He was used to the uneven weight and continued on the unbeaten trail towards the last exit he saw: Valentine. The sun was up and forcing the sweat from his brow to drip into his eyelids. For the first time in hours he realized that he was struggling to keep his eyelids from meeting. He had been riding for miles and did not pause since the rest stop where he got a bag of Funyuns and a coffee from the Java Cannon. Caffeine: his vice, his crutch, his anchor.

The vague grey shapes expanded to construct the city limits of Valentine. Skyler pressed the left palm to his temple and prayed to himself that there was a tire there for him. He glared towards the raging star above him wondering if a bike shop would be open at this hour. 8AM if he had to guess. He glanced towards his silver watch; the hands had stopped at approximately a quarter after two, fall 1999.

Caffeine withdrawal was something he still was not accustomed to. He watched the numbers on Main Street increase. 153, 157, 159. “Where the fuck is 155?” he said, startling himself in the quiet of the city. He looked across the street. Right above the door marked number 214 hung bold letters spelling out “Black Bean” glowing with neon and chrome. A picture of coffee beans cascaded over where the sign seemed to stop. He has seen worse names in his time. “Kickin' Koffee” and the ironically named “One Stop Grind Shop,” were names that came to mind. He chained his wreckage of a bike to the outside of the shop. “They’d better have espresso.”

He walked through the door and inhaled the sweet aroma of Colombian exports. The screeching of steam penetrating milk blocked out the music wafting under this hiss of the espresso machine. He located the source of music after some searching through the room. The speakers hung loosely above the coffee bar, probably an afterthought. Throughout the bar, he could see a handful of people absorbed in their morning routines. He walked towards the register, scanning the room for a menu. “Just the basics:” a sign hanging next to a mimic of the billboard above the front entrance. “Jon, yours is up,” said the woman behind the counter. Her voice rang through his ears and drowned the music with more ease than the silver pitcher containing two percent milk, injected with gaseous water.

“You lost stranger?” It wasn’t as rude as he had heard in other small towns. The right side of her mouth tilted upwards, as if she were struggling not to smile.

“Triple espresso, straight. You got those little mugs?” She nodded. Pump, press, twist, turn. The hot water churned through the espresso grinds. She had short hair, red as the last sunset he saw over the City of Brotherly Love. She poured the brown liquid into a stained ceramic mug. “You got a bike shop?” She looked up from the mechanism.

“Jon,” she yelled across the room. Skyler turned to get a good look at the addressed man. “When are you gonna open?” Jon was wearing oil-stained overalls and his face looked weathered. He shrugged and returned to his latte. “He’s the one you gotta talk to. He runs the shop down the street.” She licked her lips. Skyler was not sure if she did this as a way to arouse him or because her lips were dry. Regardless, he was aroused. He nodded and took his mug, shifting his pants and letting his mind wander. Broken mugs and spilled syrups raged through his mind as he rested in a chair. He drank half of his espresso in one gulp and stared at the girl behind the counter. Her pink nose was now buried in a book he could not make out the title to. After five minutes of daydreaming, Jon loomed over Skyler’s table. “Whatcha need?” His voice was kind and imposing; different from shop owners in the cities he resided in.

The bike shop displayed nothing but twisted frames and rusted gears. Within an hour Skyler’s tire was replaced. When he asked the price, Jon said, “20 bucks or you can help me fix this P.O.S. up.” He gestured towards a particularly worn mountain bike. Skyler looked at his watch, remembered his disassociation with time, and picked up a wrench.

“I saw you eyeing Summer.” Jon said after about they had decided to take a break. “The girl from Black Bean.” Skyler felt his face flush as images of coffee-covered tile and writhing bodies invaded his mind. He changed the subject and felt the espresso press against his bladder.

After the mountain bike was fixed and Jon sent him on his way, Skyler walked his bicycle back to 214 Main Street. It was probably 4PM, the sun started to recede. Jon told him that New York City was about 5 hours riding, small change to Skyler. Jon did not bring her up again, but Summer remained on his mind.

He walked into the Black Bean one more time to see her packing a backpack. “Another triple, stranger?

“Skyler.” It was as good of a time as ever to give his name. A man emerged from the back room. Skyler could tell he worked at the Black Bean by his outfit matching Summer’s. She said something inaudible, then told Skyler to sit. Pump, Press, Twist Turn. The room was more vacant than in the morning. He felt as though his heart would expel from his chest. Skyler had not felt that way since the night he lost his virginity. She placed a ceramic mug in front of him as she sat and sipped her frothy drink, licking the foam off her crimson lips. This time Skyler was sure her intent was arousal. Her hazel eyes made him feel at home.

“Where to?” She sounded sincere. Skyler had momentarily lost his ambition for the insomniac city and prize winnings. His mind wandered again. “Where to?” He had to think longer than he felt necessary. Suddenly it struck him how far his mind had traveled from his destination. He made a deliberate effort so sound certain in his answer. The sun receded.

“The Big Apple.” The bright lights of New York outshone her smile in his mind. His state of mind snapped back to the state of New York. He arrived in Valentine for a tire, not a woman. He stood. “I have to go, I need to be there tomorrow.” A handshake was presented, and their only physical contact was short of what he had imagined. His Schwinn called to him.

On Main Street, he stood with his feet rooted to the pavement. 159, 157, 153. Something was missing. He raised his right arm. The time was 2:14.