The bicycle struggled up the steep hill, rain mingling with beads of sweat and trickling its way along the body of the bicycle. The rider sat hunched over, his knees almost meeting his face. The bike trudged on, squeaking – moaning – complaining with difficulty; like a kid whining to be fed it protested at every turn. The tires were flat, and after every second rotation a little bump jolted the rider in his back and made him grunt at the constant discomfort. Lightning flashed too close.
The man spotted a town. It didn’t look very large: but large enough to find a place to rest his sweating, shaking legs. There was a bar; clean but not particularly inviting. He ever-slowly biked towards it.
At the bar waited a mass of motorcycles, growling and sputtering loudly. The great black machines roared and barked war cries of gasoline and metal. But soon among the engines grinding could be heard a tiny squeaking, barely noticeable – a single mouse among the herd of elephants. The bicycle made little squealing hiccups in the night as it and its passenger meandered their way past the hogs to park by the front door. With a weak little screech he set the kickstand and the bicycle to rest. The man stepped off his bike and immediately fell. He sat in the dirt for a minute before attempting to stand again. He could feel the strength returning to his wearied limbs and limped his way into the crowded bar.