They spin up the drive, wheels scattering gravel, yelling, ‘C’mon! C’mon!’ while mothers pack a sandwich in a backpack, a can of coke, hand over a helmet, saying, ‘Put it on.’
Boys grumble, bump bikes down steps, join their friends, and they’re off, out on the pavement, a dog snapping at their tyres as they ding-a-ling past the neighbours, stand on their pedals, and speed down the hill, heading for the woods.
Recent weather means mud, and they splash it up; thick clags spitting up their mudguards, they rip the forest trail, tear straggling roots, pine-needles slick as they slide, holler, whoop, find a fallen trunk and balance on its length, popping wheelies, doing jumps, as the sky darkens grey, and the drip-drip of rain percolates through leaves.
Boys on bikes pay no heed to brakes clogged with mud. One of them, rain-blind, peels off from the rest towards home, along a truck-busy road, helmet dangling from his handle bars, because who’d be seen dead?
Author: Mairead Robinson teaches and writes in the South West, UK. Winner Bath FFA (February '24) and SL Bridport ('24). Published here and there, and is currently feeling a bit fed up with rain. Tweets @judasspoon and Skeets @maireadwrites.bsky.social
Ooh, chills.