The Accidental Visit

An entry for the "Talent Pond's Carnival Midway!"  Challenge One: Ring Toss, Ring 14 short story prompt.

Now that was something we didn't see too often in our small town--a man riding a bicycle with a full pack on his back.

Oh, bicycling is pretty big in our town ... during the summer months anyway. But we don't usually see folk with packs almost as big as the rider. He was perched precariously atop his very expensive-looking bike. We have two stoplights in our town. It looked as if he would be lucky enough to to make the first one. The second one, however, saw him coming. I watched him pedal furiously to make it through before the bright yellow light changed.

I heard the tires squeal from across the street ... and watched him topple backward as he straightened up after stopping, misjudging the weight on his back. I gathered it had been awhile since he'd stopped.

I watched these events unfold, entranced by the unusual sight. Spurred by his cry, I raced toward him, reaching him just as he managed to unhook himself from the straps holding him captive. I helped him up.

"Thank you, my good fellow," he said, his English accent tripping thickly off his tongue.

"Are you alright?" I asked, adding stupidly, "You're from England."

"Why, yes, old chap, I am." He winked. "Thank you for assisting me. I have been riding for quite some time now. I seem to be fine. Thank you."

I'd been standing in front of the Main street building that houses our local theater group waiting for the doors for the Sunday afternoon matinee to open. My wife was in the show, and I'd had to come early with her. I decided to kill that half hour with an iced caramel mocha, light on the ice, at the coffee shop on the corner when the cyclist passed by.

"I'm Mike," I said, adding that he might like to take a break, pointing at the Caffe Cappucino. "Please allow me to buy you a cold drink on behalf of our errant stoplight."

He rubbed a skinned elbow, and grimaced. "Thank you, my dear fellow. I believe I shall. I am Cedric Hastings."

"Maybe you should get that elbow taken care of, Cedric."

He just smiled, and picked up his pack, slinging it over his left shoulder. I picked up his bike and started toward the coffee house.

During the next thirty minutes, I discovered Cedric was bicycling across America, an ambitious and daunting task for anyone, for therapeutic purposes. He started in San Francisco in March and was now halfway to New York. Cedric was in his mid-forties, about two inches shorter than my six foot frame, tanned and very fit. He had what I called soccer legs, thick and muscular.

He'd lost his wife of twenty-three years to cancer last year, and had needed to get away from England. He'd always been an athletic sort, backpacking and bicycling throughout Europe with his wife. Those places were too familiar, too painful for him. A friend jokingly suggested America ... and here he was--halfway through an eight month trek across the very country that had given his native land so much grief almost two and a half centuries earlier.

"I've met so many wonderful folk ... such as yourself. I've had nothing but great experiences." He winked and added, "Except for the occasional hound chasing me, or a lorry getting too close."

He told me he buys disposable cameras, shipping them off to be developed and having the developed prints sent to his home in England.

"I won't even see where I've been until I return home," he joked. Cedric had a marvelous sense of humor, something I thought odd given the British penchant for dry wit.

I suggested he attend our matinee show. We were featuring a Neil Simon comedy, The Odd Couple: Female Version. He would be my guest.

I confided that I was the President of the local Fine Arts group, which sponsored the show. And for the next two hours, our guest from across the Pond giggled and laughed until he was sore.

The benefits of living in small town America, the friendliness and charm of our small community gave Cedric another reason to feel good about his journey. He declined our invitation to stay for dinner, saying he had motel reservations in Rolla, a town about thirty miles east of us. He thanked us profusely for our hospitality, saying he couldn't remember a more peaceful and enjoyable Sunday afternoon. He wished us well in Waynesville, Missouri, and hoisted himself onto his bike, wobbled slightly, then pushed off.

When last I saw our new friend, he was once again pedaling furiously. Our hill that led out of town was indeed quite steep. I was sure he was thankful for every one of those fifteen gears on his wonderful bicycle.

Safe journey, Cedric Hastings.

Word Count: 806