The Cyclist

He flew like 'Glesga' wind. Like a great grey whippet hunched madly over his beloved bike, pedaling hell for leather in yon Scottish fog. A bead of sweat made its way down the bridge of his pointed nose as he hit the incline of the hill, his thighs filling with lactic. The air of the back roads was fresh for his lungs. After a long days ride he was quite looking forward to retiring to his apartment to read his book. After those harsh interval sprints earlier, his thighs had started to give way. He had given those legs a good thrashing and the Sunday rain was dreicher by the minute. As the hilly slope climbed steadily towards a dual carriage he almost dropped his work rate, he questioned himself, why the fuck was he out in this 'pourin' rain 'batterin' roads like a banshee? It was the fatigue talking, his better half chipped in. "You love this, you live for this" it said. He turned his head and saw a mucky white van overtaking him from the inside lane. He was drenched in sweat, mud and rain. He could hear the bowels of the van, the oily smoky bowels of the beast 'chunderin' away. There were three in the front smoking Mayfair. The driver took a glance over, he had on a high viz, had a belly, tired eyes and he was scooping polomints into his stubbly mouth. One could see that the driver felt warmer and happier at the very site of this poor wet fool cycling in such abysmal weather. The cyclist saw this man in slow motion and so clearly for a second. He saw the man and he saw himself. Suddenly he felt lighter and remembered why he was there. Thier had always been a longing to leave the house. A disgust for rules and confinements. As long as he hit these roads with all his strength he would breath fresh air, see his country with his own rhythm and race his way to championships. He fired his gears up a notch and took off forgetting his legs, body, stress. Just flew on adrenaline and grit, embracing that lowland rain. And off he flew home putting in an honest shift for the last 5 miles, merrily pondering a wee cup a tea up the hoos. 

He got back to his scheme and took the side entrance towards the council garages. He was 'knackered' bit it was a good feeling. While locking his bike away safely he overheard a rabble of noise. There was a crack of air and a clatter then a car window smash, a shriek, a gasp and a patter of running steps. He swiftly came round the side of the garage towards the racket. Th n he saw a very odd scene. In the car park was a scuffle of men. One had a cricket bat and was running after a fellow with a very large head. That same fellow had another man on his back and was trying his damnest to get him off. A third man was running towards them, 100 metres away wielding a crow bar and a fourth was there throwing silly punches at the big headed man. The cyclist didn't think much. He already knew whose side he was on and that that tea would have to wait. Strangely it was like his bold legs had carried him straight towards the ruckus. He whinched when he saw the cricket bat clatter off the poor fellows head but with great force it bounced off and sent the attacker into a 360 turn then he landed on his arse. The big fellow never even budged but made a big daft Glasgow yelp that sounded a bit like AAYAAAH!

No reflection, no thought te cyclist ran at the guy with the crowbar who was mid swing and possibly about to murder this poor 'big heeded' guy. Yon cyclist didn't consider how fatal it could have been if he himself had gotten 'chibbed'. He forgot he had just smashed out a 60 mile cycle. Instinct carried him across that car park and right up to unsuspecting prick and pooom, he toed the bastard square in the baws. Grimly, it was like kicking a sponge cake and he may have lodged the fuckers testicles back up into his groin. The man sank like a battleship and stayed down. Then a crack of wrist and shreik of pain, the punchy one had finally landed but that skull was like a bowling ball. Two down, two to go now it was more or less even Stevens. The cyclist tried rugby tackling the man with the cricket bat who was back on his feet but it's was here that the old legs would give way. His hamstrings tightened mid dive and he flopped like a shocked fish and crashed into a car door, his bike helmet was still on luckily. "Shite"he said. 

The big headed 'fella' had finally gotten the one off his back and had him in a hockey grip but the cricket bat came down hard and this time there was no rebound. The cyclist was up on shaky legs and furious. With a final short sprint coming from the blind side and with all his momentum and inspiration from playing red card football at school he delivered a two foot tackle to the back of the knees crumpling the guy. Finally the big headed guy turned and open palm slapped the last guy standing who went down with a whimper. 

Are ye alright mate? The cyclist asked

Aye, no bad. Thanks said the big fella

That's some skull you've goat pal, whit the fuck wis that all aboot?

Thir scammers them, they tried the rob the wee würmien next door blind, charging her fir  faulty services

Is that right aye, replied the cyslist

And off they went, brothers in arms somewhat confused. They went on to discuss what the dickens had just occurred soon to find that they both lived in the same group of council flats and that those alleged "plumbers" were at it, and were not to be trusted around these parts.