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Linda's Drive

Page 6

Neil Blick

I continued my ride, sore legs cranking wheels forward, gears clicking up to a greater pace, bike frame swaying from side to side. Rhythmical decompression. The bike ride was returning to normal. The rhythm of riding was allowing my mind to keep thoughts of Linda on the margin. A few more kilometres, a couple of turns, soon I was glad of a cooling breeze on my sweating body.  I looked ahead. There was the little white car stopped on a side road. A man was leaning towards the driver’s door with a phone in one hand, his other hand pointing forward. It seemed her panic had won again. I guessed she was again disabled by fear, fuelled by her mantra. I thought I could hear her saying “I’m-lost, I’ll- be-too-late”.

A big black BMW sped past, barely moving to the right, nearly clipping my right arm. I swayed, then re-balanced.

I will never know if Linda made it to her husband’s bedside. Another incomplete human interaction that sits on top of my great pile of many others. Not knowing can drive a mind to a foreign land if you let it. Or not.

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