Page 6

A Boy Called Desire

Coming towards the end of the race, the pack no longer near, only a few survive the break to the finish. One by one the contenders drop away, back to join the ever distant pack. Three carry forward their hopes, riding with them their dreams, no longer thousands of miles just a matter of three minutes or so.

The experienced leads through, wearing away the others as he reserves something for the one that will eventually survive. They always do, ever since he lost his first major race. From then on he knew he'd never be caught again and never had. In second rides the young hopeful, the new man, the one tipped for the top. Pressure he cannot feel since he hasn't ever felt it before. He will carry on, the energy of youth pushing, will it be enough? In tow lies the anomaly, the wrong thing, the unknown. What is he doing here, the local boy since that is all he is. By now he should have disappeared, vanished into oblivion. He shouldn't be here.

Which one will win, the veteran, the young upstart or the unknown quantity? The three slow, each looking for an opening, a agp in time where they can race over the horizon to that white tape. Each is also waiting for the attack, one of their partners to race away so they can be in their slipstream and sqeeze past on the line. The pressure builds, the vet knows it has to break soon but it is holding so long and almost at walking pace. He cansee the others are still alert but somehow he must make a run soon. The pressure continues to build and the young man suddenly realizes what it really is. He wavers, like a shockwave of intense ferocity it hits him, like a ten ton truck would slam into someone and carry them away. Meanwhile the local boy drops a gear, the others are too high, the pace too slow and they're not concentrating on him. The older man is watching the other not him thinks the boy.

Instinct, an inbuilt warning device amkes him turn and to his horror the pack is bearing down, no more than fifty metres away and closing at a phenominal rate. How could he have been so stupid like an ignorant pig? He pushes, this is it. Suddenly the young man seems preoccupied with the event and not the race, the old man to busy watching to see the boy move and the impending arrival of the pack.

The boy sprints away, fired up by the new threat ignoring all while piling all his efforts into escaping. The old mans own instincts kick in as he sees the boy accelerate past while simultaniously realizing the packs closeness. The young man also realizes but to late, all his power and youthfulness isn't enough to break free and he is engulfed by the tide of other cyclists in a mad dash to the front.

Only the boy and the old man left. Can they escape each other?

Experience surges forward and is closing, desire is there but not in the quantity ahead. The boy has desire, pure desire, more than all the others together, more than ever will be amassed on one place ever again. The pure glow of desire and he gets faster, slowly leaving experience behind. The old man sees desire pull away and he despares.

Faster, faster, faster, almost to fast, his legs a blur of white light. Steam rises from the tarmac and then it starts to burn. Suddenly there is no sound. It is more than deafening it is soundlessness at its absolute. An explosion of sound as noise returns.

The line is still intact, the strip of fire to it yet it is unbroken. Of the boy there is no sign.

The old man crosses the line a winner. He retires never to return to race. The youngman is never heard from again disappearing into the annals of history like many before him.

There were few casulties; two careers, one set of imploded eardrums from the sudden absence of sound and one unexplained disappearence of a young man controlled by desire.

Develop Me Scotty, Develop Me!

The above text is copyrighted to James A. Branthwaite

© 1994

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