Newspaper man stepped out of his back door, a cold breeze slapping his balding head and a freeze shivering down his body, underneath his thermal vest and multi layered clothing. Eyes watering he grimaced and trudged across to the shed.
Amazingly the shed door opened first time but what it revealed caused his heart to drop, his enthusiasm and excitement rapidly began to drift away. Just which bike was his, and why were the so many others on top of his. It seemed like a lifetime of children’s bikes and a ragtag of bike recycle machines had been dumped on his old beloved 10 speed racer.
Disentangling the mess took another half an hour and then of course he was confronted by the classic not used your bike for years issue, flat tyres…. An hour later, blister on his thumb, oil on his jeans, success appeared. Bike found and now ready to go, back outside the shed and of course it had started raining. Really, really!!!!!! Anyhow with a feeling of resignation but somehow bolstered with a layer of resolve that came up from nowhere he headed back indoors to find his waterproofs and promptly spent the next 25 minutes looking for the these and the rest of his gear. Miraculously he managed to find his gloves, yes there were two of them!
So about three hours after he first left the back door he was there geared up and ready to hit the road. A smile crossed his face and off he wobbled.
Don’t start in your highest gear he reminded himself as he felt a sharp pain in his left hip and blood easing through the rip in the elbow of his jacket. Idiot falling off before he’d ridden 10 feet, well at least no one had seen him fall. Looking good called out Mrs Sherman with a chuckle as she effortlessly glided past him….. clearly someone had. At least Mrs Sherman had been cool and not asked him if he was ok to further injure his pride. Prat said Ethan as he rode past, fuck sake Newspaper man muttered to himself, waiting now for a sink hole to appear and swallow himself up.
Fortunately the coach load of pensioners didn’t appear or the walking bus of 5 year olds so by the time he’d made it to the high street his composure had started to come back and without any further mechanical setbacks he started to feel quite good. And it had stopped raining. Taking a short cut through the rec he pushed on towards the leafy suburbs and then hopefully the country side. He was feeling good, going well. However the positive vibes took a hit when crossing the railway bridge and while trying to regain his breathing for the next 10 minutes his feeling of inadequate self consciousness was exacerbated when a huge bunch of properly kitted out cyclists steamed past leaving him trailing in their wake.
Naturally this provoked a reaction, “At least when we road back in the day we didn’t ride three abreast. We had proper discipline and riding skills and and and.” By the time he’d stopped moaning to himself and had caught his breath another 5 miles had passed and suburbia was beginning to thin out with fields and horses and stuff appearing. Yes this was fun and despite his unfitness and painfully sore elbow he was enjoying himself.
Picking himself up 5 mins later and reflecting (after and angry outburst at the stupid bloody bike) it occurred he’d had a similar slipped gears incident about 3 years ago. His resolution to get his bike to the mechanics to get his gears fixed clearly hadn’t been followed up upon, so here he was with a painful busied inside thigh and bleeding hand. Deciding he needed some time, he walked to the top of the short steep climb with the old Saxon style church at the hairpin bend. Slightly dispirited he remounted and gingerly made his way down hill and along to his planned destination. Cycle trendy cafe. Why, why why…. did he bother.
The group who had overtaken him and hour before descended on mass barely 10 minutes after he’d arrived. he felt like a fish out of water, like an older bloke accidentally being persuaded by his younger work colleagues to go to a nightclub after the team bonding meal. Typically he’d forgotten his phone, there was no one to chat to and barely any acknowledgment from the new crowd. He couldn’t leave as he still had his mug of coffee and toasted tea cake to eat. Forced to tough it out he stayed and pretended to be comfortable and happy, however within a short space of time his chest began to feel tight and he felt distinctly uncomfortable and oddly there was an odd bump where his stomouch should be. As if guided by natural instinct he felt under his jumper and could feel something papery, thick and crinkly. He took hold of the end and pulled and would you believe it a copy of the guardian emerged. In his younger days before expensive modern kit became the norm newspaper man used, like most cyclists, to stuff a paper up inside the front of his jersey to keep him warm. Odd thing was he didn’t remember placing a paper there that morning.
In his reverie he didn’t notice that the whole table had become suddenly quiet and the group of cyclists were staring at him. “radically old school” said a tall pony tailed lady. “Is that a Rapha paper’ said a beardy twenty something guy. Forgot to bring a bag with me mumbled N=newspaper man, slightly embarrassed by the attention. Things soon settled down, the matrix moment only lasted a couple of seconds but it had seemed like a year.
Smiling yet still self conscious newspaper man returned to the paper as the cyclists attention went back to what they were previously attending to. Something though wasn’t quite right…… it was a broadsheet copy of the guardian, not the modern tabloid version. And the year 1983, date July………
Feeling quite spooked he looked around him but everything seemed normal. People waffling, coffee machine making a racket and yet he’d just experienced something very freaky. He downed his coffee, paid his bill and walked outside. Still holding the paper, he rolled it up and put it in his back pocket, mounted his bike. The ride back was uneventful but tough, he gone a bit too far and his body, arse and elbow all hurt by the time he got home and he’d forgotten about the newspaper incident.
A gorgeous smile from Mrs Newspaperman who looked up from fixing the fuse box in the cupboard under the stairs. Can’t believe you’ve actually been out after all your procrastinating she said. Remember we’re out tonight
Undressing in the bathroom with steam and bubbles filling the room newspaperman suddenly remembered the newspaper. he checked his jersey but nothing was there. Odd he thought, must have dropped it. Shrugging off the odd story he carried on with his bath, until noisily awakened by Mrs NPW who said he’d been asleep in there for two hours. The couple got dressed and headed out for a night of music beer friendship and fun. Not completely true as newspaper man moaned about the people dancing in the pub and the DJ being a prat, to which he was rightly taken to task. People are allowed to have fun said Mrs NPM. Happily drunk they made their way home, had a nightcap, listened to Tedeshi Trucks and staggered to bed. Simple and enjoyable end to a strange day.
However its now 6 o’clock in the morning, our loving couple are fast asleep, but there’s a creek downstairs and a banging of the letterbox, The cats congregate thinking there’s food on offer, but they hang back slightly scared and through the letterbox comes a newspaper. But there haven’t been any deliveries in their street since 1990. An what’s weird is that its the daily express from August 1976.
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