The legend of Wilson Kane: 10 hours, 9 cols, and a mussel
The road just kept coming and full dark was almost upon him.
Nothing made sense – only a deep dread somewhere in the back of his mind – an echo, faint but heavy – dreadful, “2k to the next col”. A rise in the road and he let out a short moan, but no, the cols were gone. He was in the city, but lost. Sense starting coming back – he was cycling, yes, but where? Not in Larkhall with Neil the Dobber, Spider and the Goony, but somewhere in Spain, Girona – that was it. A promised weekend in the sun with some gentle miles and a few beers had developed into carnage. The original group of 8 had scattered to the four winds. He was now alone. And had been for a long time. When had he started? He looked at his watch – 9:38 - and counting. . .
He remembered the start, the sun, rolling out of Girona, everyone in high spirits – all so long ago. And then the wine with the paella lunch – the sun fading, everyone laughing at the photo of Tony’s arse. But that was no good, that wouldn't do. Thinking back to those happier times eased the pain for sure, but wasn’t going to get him home. Yet there was something about that lunch, that Paella. . . that was it!
He stopped, scrambling around in his back pocket – it had to be there, it had to be. . . YES! His hand squelched around the object and, gently taking it from the pocket, he slowly unfurled his fingers to reveal a huge sweaty mussel. The mussel that had got him over the 9 cols – one lick, half way up, when the going got really tough had done the trick. But now the huge sweaty mussel had lost much of its previous lustre and just sat there, almost licked out and pathetic. He hoped there was 1 lick left – 1 to get him home. He put out his tongue slowly. . . shaking, hoping. . . and it was there! Power surged through his body – his mind cleared and buzzed – he could read the roadsigns. Jumping on the bike, he cycled like a demon and saw the hotel. YA BEAUTY!!!
This is the legend of Wilson Kane, 10 hours, 9 cols and a mussel.
Nothing made sense – only a deep dread somewhere in the back of his mind – an echo, faint but heavy – dreadful, “2k to the next col”. A rise in the road and he let out a short moan, but no, the cols were gone. He was in the city, but lost. Sense starting coming back – he was cycling, yes, but where? Not in Larkhall with Neil the Dobber, Spider and the Goony, but somewhere in Spain, Girona – that was it. A promised weekend in the sun with some gentle miles and a few beers had developed into carnage. The original group of 8 had scattered to the four winds. He was now alone. And had been for a long time. When had he started? He looked at his watch – 9:38 - and counting. . .
He remembered the start, the sun, rolling out of Girona, everyone in high spirits – all so long ago. And then the wine with the paella lunch – the sun fading, everyone laughing at the photo of Tony’s arse. But that was no good, that wouldn't do. Thinking back to those happier times eased the pain for sure, but wasn’t going to get him home. Yet there was something about that lunch, that Paella. . . that was it!
He stopped, scrambling around in his back pocket – it had to be there, it had to be. . . YES! His hand squelched around the object and, gently taking it from the pocket, he slowly unfurled his fingers to reveal a huge sweaty mussel. The mussel that had got him over the 9 cols – one lick, half way up, when the going got really tough had done the trick. But now the huge sweaty mussel had lost much of its previous lustre and just sat there, almost licked out and pathetic. He hoped there was 1 lick left – 1 to get him home. He put out his tongue slowly. . . shaking, hoping. . . and it was there! Power surged through his body – his mind cleared and buzzed – he could read the roadsigns. Jumping on the bike, he cycled like a demon and saw the hotel. YA BEAUTY!!!
This is the legend of Wilson Kane, 10 hours, 9 cols and a mussel.
posted by stevenmac at 11:03 am
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