From the park-and-ride lot, it is nine miles down hill, so I don’t have to arrive sweating and hot. At the end of the day the uphill workout burns off stress. The road from the interstate highway into town is four lane with a whole extra lane for a shoulder, separated by a rumble strip. What could be a safer place to ride a bicycle?
Except for the driver texting on a sunny afternoon who didn’t hear or feel the vibrations. On my evening return journey I stop and pause before the white ghost cycle and the white flowers.
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Those ghost cycles are powerful, but sadly just another bike that many cage drivers don’t see.
Too many of them dot the landscape these days. I stay in woods more than I used to. This story sounds like my old commute, only 8 miles down hill to my bike shop and 8 tiring uphill miles home. I miss it since I sold the bike shop.
I have been riding more on the gravel. Maybe there are farmers who text on gravel roads, but there are a lot fewer of them.
Aah, a ghost story.I dabbled with the idea because of the flowers connect, but then thought I’ll write something more cheerful. Loved this one. Merry Christmas.
Yes, but unfortunately, nonfiction.
I wish this story weren’t such a sad reminder of (apparently) life in our 21st century. 😦
Yes.
Glad you could join us at the Ranch, Mark! Your flash juxtaposes the focused bicyclist with the distracted driver, using the white flowers to speak to the danger. Well done!
Remember when all we had to worry about was drunk drivers?
[…] Flash Fiction by Mark […]