Jesus lost his virginity yesterday. Jesus Killer, my fabulous fixed gear friend, that is. And I am referring to his crash virginity rather than my having given him a good up the seat post seeing to. Fucking Fairview folks. Again.
This spilling of Jesus, this spilling of me, bore quite the resemblance to my own, non-figurative cherry-popping, in that it took place on wet ground and was unremarkable in just about every conceivable way. A quick turn into the park, wet leaves, fucking down we go. I'm still sore. Left shoulder. Right knee. Heel of my left hand. Ouchy, ouchy, ouchy. Jesus remains relatively unscathed.
The irony of my being helped up by a bus driver was not lost on me, nor should it be lost on you. These fuckers seem to spend most of their working day attempting to make orphans of my children and yet it would seem that if you take them from behind their oversized wheels they become quite the gentle men and women.
'Wet leaves, was it?' It was, Mr Bus Driver Man, it was.
But I want to talk briefly about the moment. On this occasion, it was but a brief moment, though once it lasted longer. When, during my second ever ride upon Hardcore Motherfucker, I slammed on the brakes and flew through the air with greatest of ease, landing on outstretched arms, and shattering my right elbow, I must have been in the air for a good three seconds. Yesterday, it was just the blink of eye, the flash between feeling the wheels go and the grounding itself. But in both cases there was the moment, that seems somehow to last forever. The moment when control is lost and the burdens of this cursed life become no longer mine. Instinct is doing the fall breaking, the arm outstretching, the face protecting and the mind is left to wander free in a kind of nirvana. I don't even think with hopeful relief that maybe this time I'll die or even just get a couple of weeks in hospital. I think of nothing, which is oh so very rare. I can see totally see the attraction of jumping, if only I didn't have to make the decision to jump.
I disagree with you Hubert. For me, my fictional French friend, l'important, c'est pas l'atterissage, c'est la chute.
And so far so fucking good.