I love riding my bike through the city. It's fun, cars are mostly polite and make way for you. You can ignore most of the signs if you like and not get into trouble. Mostly it's fun.
Then there's the weather. It makes things decidedly less enjoyable. And that's where I found myself, soaked to the skin, at the stage of cycling apathy where pedaling was a mechanical yet conscious effort. My bag was heavy against my back, sodden wet too, and I knew my laptop was probably wet through and undoubtedly ruined. All I wanted to do was to get home.
Unsympathetic cars sped by. I pictured the occupants, hated them for their dryness and therefore consequent smugness. I wanted nothing more than to reverse places with them. And maybe then I'd offer them a ride. But no-one does that these days. Whether it's dangerous or not the jury is still outout, but it's the question, the invitation into a strange vehicle. No-one wants to be perceived as creepy, and so the altruistic gesture is silenced before it even manifests into an act.
My hair hung down my face, drips of water trickling into my eyes and ears and down my back (how can I even feel that in this deluge -- and yet I can). Even my feet squelch in my shoes when I push down to move forward a seemingly inconsequentially small distance.
A car speeds past, and coasts a wave of water towards me. It hits me, and for a moment I feel like I'm swimming on a bicycle. Instantly I'm upset, and a moment later I laugh, because, what the hell at this point. Who cares. I certainly don't.
Surprisingly the car slows, then stops, the glow of red brake lights shattered and faceted in my soaked vision. It pulls over, not too close the curb, enough to let a cyclist by. I pull up slowly, and the window winds down. It's a big car, an S.U.V. Alongside I get a glimpse of a male face.
"Look, I'm sorry, are you okay?"
"Good enough." I smile, unable even now to be upset in the face of a real, humble apology.
"Shit. I didn't see the puddle. You're drenched."
"Yup, I am. I was drenched before. But no worries. Things happen."
He smiled apologetically. He was handsome, a little beard, full lips.
"I know this might sound creepy, but do you want a ride? I'll take you wherever you want."
"It's only creepy to me when the person says it isn't," I replied, smiling a little.
"Seriously though, it's the least I can do. Your bike will go right in the back."
I considered it for a moment. Not a long moment, mind. I was soaked to the bones and I had a long way to go. Creepy be damned. I could handle myself if things got weird.
"Sure." He smiled broadly in response. Hopping out of his car he came round back and opened the back hatch, and we hefted my bike inside. He dashed back inside, and I got in next to him and pulled the door closed.
"I'm going to get your seats all wet you know."
"It's not a problem. They'll dry. I'm Peter, by the way." He extended a hand and gave me a firm handshake.
"Where to?"
I gave a cross-street near to my house and we pulled away, starting the long process of navigating city traffic. Bad weather aside, it makes the bicycle a real asset when moving through the streets.
We made small talk for a while. He seemed genuinely warm, and legitimately sorry for what he'd done. He was from the city, lived there all his life, and had a good job downtown. I paid attention to the details about him, wary still of course. He drove confidently, holding the wheel in one hand, the other on his leg. He was physically fit, his thighs and calves were muscled and full. Occasionally he would look at me, rather furtively at first, between stop lights and signs.
After a long pause, he spoke.
"I know this is against what I said about creepy before, but I have to say that I didn't think I was going to give a ride to..."
