The Pacific Flyer

Class starts in seven minutes, and I’m stuck on Gemini trying to conjure up a reasonable excuse for Mr. Holic. I had a doctor’s appointment, my electricity went out, my dog died, no. I guess traffic will have to do. I inch my way into the parking garage so I don’t send the Pacific Flyer tumbling off the bumper bike rack. How glorious it looked with its shining teal frame, the wire basket zip-tied to the handle bars, and that beautifully rusted silver bell perfectly complimenting its flawless structure. Focus Jake, no time for daydreaming.
I tumble out of the car in every effort to save what little time I have before class starts. 1:28. I scramble to collect my materials out of the cluster of junk in my back seat, halved Chick-fil-a cups and Wendy’s bags are tossed every-which-way like popcorn kernels. I finally collect my papers and assignments to turn in. 1:30. I jet stream to the Pacific Flyer hanging on for dear life on the bike rack, and in one swift motion I sweep it off its feet, or its tires I should say, and set it gently on the concrete. 1:31. I’m late.
I mount the Pacific Flyer, push the pedal to the ground and heave with all my might. Down the parking garage slopes I went. The Pacific Flyer living up to its full potential. I flew down the ramp like Lance Armstrong. I kept my head low and my knees locked in, aerodynamics can only benefit me in my efforts to save time. I came around the first bend, ringing the bell to alert any misfortunate pedestrian who would be trampled by tires of the Pacific Flyer. Breaking was not an option.
I flew around the corner on my speed contraption, the rusty chains squealing for mercy. Immobile cars flashed past my peripherals, and the Flyer made every effort to lift its self from the ground, and truly take flight to the Pacific blue skies outside. I could see the opening where I would make my escape, break out of the dark chasm of that garage. No time to slow down. 1:33. Three minutes late. I speed up.
I bursted through the exit, and made no efforts to stop.
SCREECH!
An enormous black monster exploded at me from the right. I broke left. And in the rush of adrenaline all I could make out was the silver Escalade® that displayed on the hood of the SUV.
BANG!
I thought for sure I had no way out. But after pulling off to the side and catching my breath I was able to see the extent of the damage. The rear tire was clearly unable to complete a full rotation without the bent spokes dragging across the frame. The Pacific Flyer . . . would fly no more. I looked up to see the culprit, the man responsible for the unfortunate death of the Pacific Flyer. The man who controlled the great beast named “Escalade.” I looked up and saw the stolid black SUV, fearless, merciless, an absolute monster. An explanation I demanded. But as I approached the glass curtain that separated me from the wizard, I saw that it wasn’t an evil master mind. It was not a man seeking to destroy a loyal steed. It was a family.
A seemingly wealthy family. They seemed to have been visiting the campus, possibly for some sort of orientation for a senior in the family. Maybe they were having a joy ride across UCF campus. But as I wondered why they might be here at UCF, they wondered why this crazy white boy is flying out of parking garages. The result was a moment of silence. A solid minute. I stared at them, while they stared right back at me. Speechless, on both sides. 1:37. I had class.
So to break the silence I asked, "Are you guys ok?"