Triumphantly, with a juice box in hand, I would step inside and dig my bicycle out from beneath the lawnmowers, ropes, mining boots and fishing nets. Eventually wheeling the aged monstrosity of a bike out onto the chunky, sun-kissed driveway of gravel. My ‘valiant steed’ wasn’t much to look at, with mud caking the spokes, patched tires and knick-knacks such as snake buckets, mirrors, water bottles and horns hanging from it. Despite it being the ugly duckling, this bike was mine, for it never let me down. Even through the torture it was put through day by day, such as craggy paths, mud holes, jumps, wipeouts, flat tires and generally horrible crashes.
Down the road I would go, away from what brought me so much pain. I would move far from the tousled household of arguing parents and drunken neighbors; a place that never appeased to my already fragile state. I would go nowhere in particular, but I always seemed to end up somewhere significant. Constantly taking that same, narrow path which etched it’s way down the sharp face of a craggy, angry-looking hill; unscathed by erosion and the cause of many scraped knees, bruises and flat tires. I brought nothing of importance with me, aside from the necessary can of Pepsi and that half of a package that consisted of Premium Plus crackers. I dared not estimate how long they occupied the pantry.
Worn tires bit into the pathways that were traversed, as golden billows of dust rose steadily behind my speeding body. The old bike was transformed into a release, taking me away from all that bothered or hurt me. The trees, distorted by the humid Cape Breton heat, seemed to wave and squirm in a fervent illusion as I flew past them. Despite my unease, I would always find the time to wave heartily to the ‘blueberry pickers’, with their legs scraped up due to examining the wrong bushes. On their scraggly heads, there would often be the silliest examples of headwear, such as twenty-year-old hats, Scottish golfing hats and fishing caps. Alas, I would never stop for them, as the tires on my bike retained their velocity and carried me onwards into the forest.
Deeper into the highland woods I would weave, barely stopping to inhale the scents of cherry blossoms and lilac trees which I adored, due to the fact that they reminded me too much of home. How their delicate scents often merged with the pungent haze of beer and smoke and how they were a constant foreshadow to a life that was rapidly waning away. Eventually, I would take that certain path that branched off from the main drag and cut diagonally into the tree line. The trees were larger and the rocks were sharper here, all of which claimed my grace and caused me to tumble clumsily from my seat on many occasions. Still, I was not the only one who traveled this route, since predecessors of my travels shunned most of the volatile rocks off to the side of the path.
I knew now where I was going, and my rampant speed began to decrease gradually with the idle tapping of the squeaky brakes. Dusty tires grinded to a halt, and I dismounted into the grass and dirt to rest my tired feet. Here, no one would find me, and no troubles would plague my fragile, ten-year-old heart. This forested haven was a graveyard, but not for a human or a pet. Trees hung over large, black lumps of twisted steel and rubber; baking in the afternoon sun with leaves caressing the ochre surfaces. The scent of lilac was still strong, but became tinted with the scent of corroding metal. Still, I would lay my bike down and stroll away from the path into my dilapidated, steel sanctuary. Between the scattered pieces of a 1975 Chevy and an old Volkswagen, I would explore with the innocent guile of a heartbroken child. Here with the dozens of old, decrepit and abandoned cars, I would rest and forget about my problems.
I would find my usual spot, and sit down aside the weather-beaten husk of an old Ford mustang, with its doors long removed and one half of its body missing. Eventually, I would let myself lie down in the grass beside the old vehicle and just close my eyes. Pretending that I was one of these old cars that were once polished and driven by owners that loved them. Here, I could not listen to my parents feuding, or experience the scents of the alcohol which ruined the remnants of a family. In this place of loneliness, I already had my companionship, and if only those cars could talk, what would they say...?
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