Big H

He's getting closer, he's getting closer ladies and gentlemen! Big H is practically on his side, he's hunting him down. He's running, no, he's bursting out with all his gear and now they're on the curve and HE'S PASSED HIM! HE'S PASSED HIM LADIES AND GENTS! We're getting closer to the finish line, the pressure's on boiling point. I can see him eating the ground he's running on and his wheels are just flaming as he approaches the checkered flag and he w –

"Harold, clear out the way. I've gotta work" says Rachel with a look in the eyes as expressive as the oil bottles she's going to sell today.

Now, it's public knowledge that I love Rachel. We've been best friends since driving school, and I adore her. But, seriously, sometimes she just drives me mad.

"Oh, Rachel! What do you want? I was about to win!" I tell her, going reluctantly to the other side of the street to let her lay her items down on the ground. She's been selling her home-made engine's oil in the daily market for a long time now, and cars seem to like it very much. They come from all over the district to have some.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were having another of your hallucinations about winning an imaginary race!" she says with all the sarcasm that ever existed on the world.

I let my front wheel roll on the dust so some ends up on her face. I know how bad she hates when I do it, 'cause it makes her cough the chains out of her wheels and it makes me crack up like crazy. It's the least I can do to return the chore she gives me when I practice.

Flash news: I'm a bike. And bikes (or bicycles, as old folks say) are not supposed to run. I mean, there are some bikes that run, but they live in the high quarters, where people got golden chains and diamonds in their handlebar. The ones they do are not real races. They don't get dusty after they win, they don't take a moment to taste the wind and vapor water condensed all over your body. They just...run. For winning the prize money, which I don't actually mind but which is not the only reason I run for.

"Where are your locks?" she asks me. The metallized purple of her thin body shines in the hot sun as I answer her: "They've already been displayed carefully at my booth. You came late, sister." I'm joking, of course, for it's 6 AM and we're the only living souls in the square. It's the largest place in town where I can practice, and it's better to do it when nobody's around, believe me.

We live in an oasis in the desert of Dry Wheels. Ours is a small and poor town, Bikeville, and people have a mindset as closed as a safe, and if they see a bike running like a pro, they start ringing their bells, laughing and calling you 'loser'.

Anyway, the desert hosts a big highway and many visitors drop-by at our market. It's our primary source of survival...and yes, I sell locks. 'New and used, for all tastes and of all prices' as I constantly repeat at the market every single day until I go home and what all I can think about are locks, new and used, for all tastes and of all prices.

Rachel finishes laying down her stuff and turns on her radio. The old country songs start playing in low volume and she leans on her stand while she tells me: "Harold, you have to stop that. You know, the running thing. You can't keep running like that and forget your work. Yesterday your Grand-Dad told me you left home to go running without even locking the house door while he was away."

I start rolling my eyes. Grand-Dad isn't one big fan of me. Wait, do I have fans at all?

"Harold, I'm serious. Please, stop doing all this rubbish and tell me you'll behave like a normal bicycle."

Of course I don't answer her, and the radio fills the space between us. The song is echoing lazily in the empty square and does little to calm me down. What does she want? What do all of them want from me? That I quit running? If they asked me to stop breathing it would have been better.