One was on a walkie talkie, yelling something

Late last year I saddled up on the literary equivalent of the Surly Long Haul Trucker --Nanowrimo, a greasy-haired, month-long attempt to write a novel of 50,000 words. That's about 1,670 words a day. My so-called novel is a pinwheeling shambles although I did somehow make the 50,000 limit. Anyway, I've always wanted to see a really good bike chase in a novel or a film. Like in the next James Bond movie, say. Wouldn't it be beyond cool if 007 forcibly requisitioned a single-speed from an indignant cycle courier and thrashed through the streets of New York or London whilst being hotly pursued? There could be a little ironic scene where he attempts to balance track-style at the lights, considering his options as his pursuers come tearing through the traffic, then tips over and sprawls in an undignified heap.

In the absence of such a scene I thought I'd lever one into my story. So here it is, in all its first-draft, late-night, stream-of-conscious over-written shabbiness. Our hero, Ray, is attempting to escape from a triumvirate of murderous agents, two astride bicycles (carbon fibre, of course -- Ray rides steel), the third behind the wheel of a car:

His legs pumped. He felt the seat firm under his buttocks, the bike responsive as he flexed his body, grunting. It had been awhile since he'd put it under this sort of pressure, he thought mildly. Whump, car came past him like a punch, heading the other way, its tyres pawing at the ground as the driver yanked the wheel to turn, trying to clip him. Ray leaned jauntily into the corner. A sudden jolting jerk as the pedal gouged the tarmac, the bike hobbled, flipping up out of the turn. He stood up then, bearing down on the pedals. Over the hump, mudguards clattering. Glaring like a hawk at a car alongside, peering for the driver, snatching a glimpse of the indicator, tensing to veer out of the way if the car turned. His legs paused, the road flurrying, the car kept on. He squeezed the brakes, cut across behind it then, right knee outflung to make a triangle, carving the road tight, heading for the park. Behind him, a long tearing slew of tyres. He took the footpath then, pulling the bike up between his legs to waft over the gutter. A sharp shout, half-articulated obscenities, people braced for impact and swearing at the same time. He kept on. Tore a look over his shoulder. They were right there, black legs windmilling, banking out wide, coming up on him. He flung out his arm. One was on a walkie-talkie, yelling something. The car bumped along behind them over the park, ludicrous somehow. Hell of a mess to the grass. He cut right, whipped by branches. A car braked, windscreen white with light. He careered off the side of it, pushing off like a swimmer, panting hard now, guts in his throat. He was going to vomit if this didn't end soon. No time to change gears. The chain lashed his ankle. Threw all of himself, every molecule of himself into the cranks, up on the pedals, lunging down. He heard them caroom off the vehicle too. Outraged shouts. They were heading down a narrow cobbled lane. He lashed right. Stairs, cantilevering down to a lower street. Hold on. A man leapt out of the way. The bike clashing down. This couldn't be good for it, he thought. But I do treat my equipment rough. That's what it's there for. He had no truck with people who mollycoddled the things they bought. Use them hard, use them well, he always said. This was what he was thinking as he cracked down the stairs, straightened up, briefly genuflecting over the handlebars as he sought speed. His legs were on fire, dipped in acid. An elongated clash of metal told him his pursuers were coming down the steps behind him. Cymbal crash as one went down, yelling in pain. A puff of brick on the wall ahead. They were shooting. Something plucked at his shoulder. He turned down an alley.

Dead end.

The car collided with his bike, he felt it going under him like a bull that had been knifed by a matador, the knees buckling and shaking, then down. It happened very slowly, it seemed to him. The bike was being taken away from him, it was being eaten up. His chin struck the tarmac. Ooof, he said. He heard his bike grinding itself into the tarmac. It was under the car wheels now. Everything came to a rest.

In the silence he lay face down on the tarmac with his arms on either side of his head.

Don't worry, Ray rides again.