Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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22 The Case of the Stolen Bicycle all quite elementary. As you know, when you have elimi- nated the impossible whatever remains, however improba- ble, must be the truth. Moriarty is behind the theft. He sits as does an evil spider in his web. I fear he has stripped your poor Marin's vital components for resale before off- loading the empty husk to an unsuspecting party in an- other town. It was easy to conclude that even I would not be able to retrieve your stolen bicycle in a state in which you would wish to find it-although I did hear talk of it in Lewes, where the disguise you saw allowed me access into that dark world-and it would be far easier and kinder to simply buy you a new one. After perusing the agony columns I came across an ad from our local bike shop and sent Watson to fetch a similar beast. It appears the doctor has erred on the side of generosity in his task.' It was of course true. In my excitement as the Irregular had wheeled the bike in I had singularly failed to take note that it was nothing like that which had been stolen. It was even a different colour. I could not thank them enough. As I collected my new steed and prepared to leave Baker Street, it occurred to me that the great detective might be able to help me with another matter: 'A friend of mine possesses a bicycle which evinces a peculiar 'ticking' sound emanating from the vicinity of the bottom bracket-' As Holmes' face assumed a rictus of undiluted horror, Dr Watson bundled me out of the study and onto the street. 'Terribly sorry old chap,' he said. 'There are some cases that even Sherlock won't touch.'
  
Bending a Straight Road Peter Gelman With an illustration by Neal Skorpen As I rounded the bend, huffing along New Lower River Road, I suddenly stopped whistling. The reason was-well, there was a subtle reason that you may not understand, and I am sort of busy. But regardless of the reason, my whistle cessation was in itself noteworthy. Not only was the whistle cessation noteworthy, but so was the actually whistling that preceded it. I had begun that round of whistling in part because of a nervous vibration. Vibrated and agitated for absolutely no reason, I wanted to whistle my tune not twice, not zero times, but one pure, true, našive little time. The problem was that I couldn't be sure if I had already whistled that vitally imperative tune when I biked across the Columbia River bridge. The thunderous traffic (that was but a symptom of that cosmically nervous vibration) obliterated even the memory of my lips forming an 'O'. It did so with numerous 'broom', 'mrah', and 'nyah' sounds, which as you know, are not conducive to pure, sweet bouts of happy whistling. Here, however, the road was quiet, and flat. I pedaled ­ 23 ­

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