rusty snow
rusty snow
530 // PG
for dec 9
pete/patrick
He slid his finger down the curve of the left handle bar, the pad of his index finger feeling every worn groove. Every spot where the aluminum submitted to iron oxide to give way to rust. The silver being demoted to bronze. He peeled a few crusty pieces away and smoothed his palm over the dusty seat.
“What are you doing?”
Pete turned around to see Patrick in the doorway. “Nothing just…I was remembering when this bike had seen better days.” He thought back to first days of school, first crushes, first injuries. “I dunno, I kinda felt like taking it around the block.”
“Around the block? The morning after the biggest snowfall of the year. Right, Pete. Plus it’s covered in rust.”
“That just means it has character.” Pete opened the garage door. He really just wanted to prove Patrick wrong. He wheeled the old bike out, checking for even the slightest bit of pressure in the tires. His finger pushed into the tube; it stopped before it hit the rim. Good enough for him. He pushed the pedals around a few times to make sure the chain would turn. The sound of the gears and cogs working made his heart feel just that much better.
As he mounted he thought of winter breaks from school. Pedaling as fast as he could until he thought his lungs would burst. Flying down snowy hills while standing up on the pedals, the wind numbing his ears.
Pete wrapped his already icy fingers around the rubber grips. He stared down the daunting snowy sidewalk like it was a new territory to be conquered. Henceforth to be known as Wentzland.
He pushed down on the pedal to start up the momentum, hovering over the seat and pumping his legs as hard as he could. The old bicycle groaned in protest as it met the snow head on. He pressed onward, his muscles straining from the effort. His momentum began to fade and he made it three houses down before inertia finally won against Pete’s failing kinetic energy. The bike hovered on its wheels before gravity pulled Pete and the bike down, the soft snow catching his fall.
Pete rolled onto his back. His lungs burned. He puffed out sharp breaths that curled above his face like smoke. His limbs were still tingling; he could feel the blood pulsing through his thighs.
He laid there in somebody’s front yard he probably should know but didn’t, looking up at the dead limbs twisting on trees and thinking about life cycles. About how everything, eventually, will one day turn to rust. About how the birth rate is higher than the death rate but you always read about the deaths in the paper.
He heard a crunching in the snow until Patrick was standing over him. He was smiling, his cheeks and lips red, his breath meeting and mingling with Pete’s in the open air between them.
“Well, that was a success.”
Pete just smiled up at his friend; he thought about how great he looked from this view and even how much better he would look lying down in the snow next to him.
“It was. Now I feel alive.”
530 // PG
for dec 9
pete/patrick
He slid his finger down the curve of the left handle bar, the pad of his index finger feeling every worn groove. Every spot where the aluminum submitted to iron oxide to give way to rust. The silver being demoted to bronze. He peeled a few crusty pieces away and smoothed his palm over the dusty seat.
“What are you doing?”
Pete turned around to see Patrick in the doorway. “Nothing just…I was remembering when this bike had seen better days.” He thought back to first days of school, first crushes, first injuries. “I dunno, I kinda felt like taking it around the block.”
“Around the block? The morning after the biggest snowfall of the year. Right, Pete. Plus it’s covered in rust.”
“That just means it has character.” Pete opened the garage door. He really just wanted to prove Patrick wrong. He wheeled the old bike out, checking for even the slightest bit of pressure in the tires. His finger pushed into the tube; it stopped before it hit the rim. Good enough for him. He pushed the pedals around a few times to make sure the chain would turn. The sound of the gears and cogs working made his heart feel just that much better.
As he mounted he thought of winter breaks from school. Pedaling as fast as he could until he thought his lungs would burst. Flying down snowy hills while standing up on the pedals, the wind numbing his ears.
Pete wrapped his already icy fingers around the rubber grips. He stared down the daunting snowy sidewalk like it was a new territory to be conquered. Henceforth to be known as Wentzland.
He pushed down on the pedal to start up the momentum, hovering over the seat and pumping his legs as hard as he could. The old bicycle groaned in protest as it met the snow head on. He pressed onward, his muscles straining from the effort. His momentum began to fade and he made it three houses down before inertia finally won against Pete’s failing kinetic energy. The bike hovered on its wheels before gravity pulled Pete and the bike down, the soft snow catching his fall.
Pete rolled onto his back. His lungs burned. He puffed out sharp breaths that curled above his face like smoke. His limbs were still tingling; he could feel the blood pulsing through his thighs.
He laid there in somebody’s front yard he probably should know but didn’t, looking up at the dead limbs twisting on trees and thinking about life cycles. About how everything, eventually, will one day turn to rust. About how the birth rate is higher than the death rate but you always read about the deaths in the paper.
He heard a crunching in the snow until Patrick was standing over him. He was smiling, his cheeks and lips red, his breath meeting and mingling with Pete’s in the open air between them.
“Well, that was a success.”
Pete just smiled up at his friend; he thought about how great he looked from this view and even how much better he would look lying down in the snow next to him.
“It was. Now I feel alive.”