-- We were somewhere around….
We were somewhere around Ruamahunga, on the Thames Coastal Road, when the heat began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “I feel a little light headed, maybe we should stop for water.” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge gulls, all swooping and screeching and diving around our peleton, which was going about a 25 miles an hour to Coromandel.
And a voice was screaming "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?"
Then it was quiet again. We stopped. My associate had taken his shirt off and was pouring suntan lotion on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "You lot keep going. I need some water. I’ll catch up.” No point mentioning those gulls, I thought. The poor bastards will see them soon enough.
Finding the cold water tap in the fuel station forecourt was impossible. I would have to go inside. A tap, Kind Sir, for this road weary cyclist in search of the great COROMANDEL dream.
“Tank water,” the lizard skinned proprietor hissed, dismissing me with a wave of his fisted claw. Goddman, one litre is all I ask.
He was clearly sick and dangerous. He was a liar and a thief and a rapist who was probably incurable.... In some provinces they have Castration Programmes for foul balls like this: Chop out the hormones, turn them into eunuchs with fat little hands and glistening eyes and wispy hair on their necks who don't mind admitting they're wrong.
So I banged on the double glazed fridge door and seized a very fine 1 litre. No point mentioning the great COROMANDEL dream, I thought, a poor bastard like that might CUT me.
“Can we make the trade?” I enquired, tossing a sweaty five dollar bill on to his fly blown counter.
“Here’s your change. Now take this goddamn water and get the fuck out of here.”
“I’ll be back. I’ve got your name on the sales slip. I’ll find out where you live and burn your house down.”
Jesus. Did I say that? Or just think it? Did he hear me?
Goddamn, I think those miles were getting to me.
We were somewhere around Ruamahunga, on the Thames Coastal Road, when the heat began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “I feel a little light headed, maybe we should stop for water.” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge gulls, all swooping and screeching and diving around our peleton, which was going about a 25 miles an hour to Coromandel.
And a voice was screaming "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?"
Then it was quiet again. We stopped. My associate had taken his shirt off and was pouring suntan lotion on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "You lot keep going. I need some water. I’ll catch up.” No point mentioning those gulls, I thought. The poor bastards will see them soon enough.
Finding the cold water tap in the fuel station forecourt was impossible. I would have to go inside. A tap, Kind Sir, for this road weary cyclist in search of the great COROMANDEL dream.
“Tank water,” the lizard skinned proprietor hissed, dismissing me with a wave of his fisted claw. Goddman, one litre is all I ask.
He was clearly sick and dangerous. He was a liar and a thief and a rapist who was probably incurable.... In some provinces they have Castration Programmes for foul balls like this: Chop out the hormones, turn them into eunuchs with fat little hands and glistening eyes and wispy hair on their necks who don't mind admitting they're wrong.
So I banged on the double glazed fridge door and seized a very fine 1 litre. No point mentioning the great COROMANDEL dream, I thought, a poor bastard like that might CUT me.
“Can we make the trade?” I enquired, tossing a sweaty five dollar bill on to his fly blown counter.
“Here’s your change. Now take this goddamn water and get the fuck out of here.”
“I’ll be back. I’ve got your name on the sales slip. I’ll find out where you live and burn your house down.”
Jesus. Did I say that? Or just think it? Did he hear me?
Goddamn, I think those miles were getting to me.
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5 comments:
I love seagulls.
ALL SEAGULLS MUST DIE YOU TREE-HUGGING HIPPY F#$%ER!!!!
Seagulls are nothing compared to swooping bats.
I had a similar experience once on Waiheke. It was a boiling hot summer's day and I was circumnavigating the island on my old mountain bike. I was on a dirt track miles from any shops and, bidons empty, I asked a bloke (through dessicated lips) whether I could fill my water bottles from a tap I could see on the side of his sheds, dripping invitingly. "No" he answered. And that was the end of that exchange. The charm of rural NZ.
Those cheap honky faggots. One of them's going to get CUT.
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