Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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168 Boneshaker an accident. I have something to show you.' 'But I only bought a cheap day return.' I gazed out the window. Everything was...different somehow. 'I don't be- lieve it,' I gasped. 'You've transported me back in time.' 'No, that's just Catford,' he said. 'We're not there yet.' Eventually we rolled into central London and disem- barked. 'What year is it?!' I shouted to be heard above the clopping hooves of what sounded like a million horses. 'Let's just say black is the new black. And I'm not talking about Lycra.' He glanced at my bike. 'Better lose that. The Victorians aren't big on gripshifters.' We stopped by a bike shop and I traded down (up, in the shopkeeper's opinion: 'What do you have against STI?') for a Boneshaker. Then we headed through town on those damn cobblestones. 'Where we going, CP?' I asked, shaken but not yet stirred. 'Nowhere in particular,' he breezily admitted. 'I just like riding around.' We stopped near the Houses of Parliament. 'Why is it called 'Big Ben'?' I wondered aloud, just mak- ing conversation as we wolfed down some eel PTLEFT chips sold by a vendor who was favouring me with a very suspicious look. 'I wouldn't worry if it was organic or not,' my ethereal companion chided me. 'Big Ben? That was the Queen's pet name for Albert's-' BONG! BONG! BONG! He glanced at his pocket-watch. 'Really, I do dither. What do you see?' Not much. The smog was incredible. 'A helluva lot of fer- tilizer,' was my first thought. We'd spent much of the after- noon dodging it and the factories which produced it. 'Un- predictable horses with very strong legs-and they aren't fond of sharing the road. Traffic jams and frayed tempers. An almost eerie absence of SUVs. A few brave souls wob- bling around on two wheels; I guess it hasn't really caught on yet. Hats.' I was mildly aggrieved. 'What is it I'm sup- posed to be seeing? Why did you drag me back here into this godforsaken century?' He shook his head sadly. 'Young people today [presum- ably referring to anyone less than half an eon old]. Always
  
Scott Munn 169 bitching about something. I just wanted to show you that urban cyclists have always had a tough time. Thought maybe it would make you feel better. And I get frequent time-travelling miles.' Well, fine. 'But what does all this have to do with your job description?' He shrugged his shoulders, less than interested in de- bating the point. 'It's Christmas. I'm a ghost. It's a gig.' I contemplated the filthy Thames. Turned around and he was gone. So were almost all the horses. Suddenly it was present day. My Boneshaker was leaning drunkenly against a wall. The eel vendor had transmogrified into a cop, who was eyeing it with official mistrust and communicating his disquiet into his radio. I rushed to retrieve it, assuring him it was not a cleverly-disguised bomb and silently cursing the ghost for not being very detail-oriented; I wanted my regular bike back. Presumably a jobbing Ghost of Christmas Present would be along shortly. I contemplated the filthy river of cars. A courier zipped past, sucked through the metal corridor, on high alert for tourists gawking at Big Ben (if only they knew). I took my bike for a short walk along the embank- ment, gripping its saddle, minutely adjusting its course as if I were riding no-handed. The Ferris wheel across the Thames turned its lazy arc, spokes glinting, a monster bi- cycle wheel scooping up one load of riders after another for a taste of the sky. Almost like going spinning, I thought. Perhaps one day it would shake itself loose from its moor- ings and take them for a tour of the city, scattering taxis and delivery vans as it freewheeled from one photo-op to another. I guided the Boneshaker into a stately U-turn around a performance artist making decent money imitating a statue and hopped on. As I glided over Westminster Bridge the Ghost of Christmas Future cruised alongside me on a tan- dem. The Ghost of Christmas Present was stoking fever- ishly and mumbling to himself. 'Ignore him,' said Future smoothly. 'Everyone else does.' We reached the other side and all the motorised vehicles

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