On the cycle path.


Based on a true story - when this happens to you check your pension is performing.

He rounded the corner on the remote track, only to become away of a sleek brunette about half the age as himself converge from the left. She glistened in tight lycra, powerful thighs pumping, buttocks flexing making ground on him at an embarrassing rate. Soon she rode level and he could not help but look across at the scissoring thighs, be intimidated by their great girth where hinged at the crotch. In a moment she was past and accelerating, shapely lycra clad hips and buttocks baiting his masculinity's dominance into action, his legs began to push harder at the pedals his mind focused on redressing his position in front and away. For a full three minutes he thundered away at the cranks of his machine, bringing his considerable leg power to bear on the pedals as if they were a terrible enemy. Slowly but surely he drew alongside the lycra encased beauty causing her to sharply tilt her head and briefly look across at him in slight but obvious suprise. He was past, but his masculine ego radiated no satisfaction, no feelings of superiority were in evidence to comfort him only an increasing feeling of alarm. Two miles of unpolluted track spiralled and undulated into the distance. Nowhere to exit, no way to quit while ahead.

Ahead although he was, his peripheral vision informed him that he had not left the young woman very far behind, in fact she sat in his back wheel like a leech. Numerous times he rose on the pedals affecting greater force and hoping he could accelerate away but soon coming to realise that he could not. Belatedly the uneasy rasping noises that emanated from his chest permeated his consciousness and the terrible burning in his thighs signalled their increasing lack of interest in wrestling with ever-reluctant pedals. He was weakening, and if on cue to his realisation the woman moved out and alongside, then past and started cruising away. His masculine ego less in evidence but incensed spurned him on to new efforts like a cowardly bully trying to provoke a fight between peers for his own amusement. Necessity required he flick down through the gears to pacify his screaming legs, and he rose on the pedals starting to fight once more. He fought long and hard occasionally having to flick down another gear or two exhausting his options but made no ground on the woman who indeed seemed to be ever increasing her lead. Suddenly through his pain of exertion a new perspective descended upon him. In his lucidity he became aware of the pathetic spectacle he was making, or rather would make if anyone were there watching. A gasping man, pedalling furiously against a low gear in pursuit of a female goddess handsome in her fullness leaving him long behind with strong easy strokes in a high demanding gear indicative of her powerfully honed thighs and superb aerobic conditioning. With uneasy acceptance he lowered his legs cadence. He was old, she was young. He was doomed only to get weaker, she to become more powerful for many years yet, and last but most cutting of all her attentions whether to pleasure or to pain would never be directed at him. Young men, perhaps affluent old men with money to burn would someday enjoy a more focused exploration of her physicality but never the ordinary working man - all he had to look forward to was his coffin.

The End.

Forgive the 'stuttering' aspect of the prose, if its' entitled to be labelled as prose, it was a bit of a rush job in a moment of boredom.