by Jim Jennings
***
The creaky yellow bicycle whistled through the busy early afternoon traffic of Paris, the smell of diesel and the screech of tyres on tarmac reminding Laurence of his daily commute to work every day in London. He took his arms away from the handlebars momentarily, for cycling was something he was actually considered to be good at, and launched his jacket to some pedestrians. He always found it easier to cycle with as fewer clothes on as possible and tried to figure out where he was going. The bike wobbled nervously as it passed over some cobbles, but Laurence swiftly regained control. It felt good to be back on the saddle again and as he accelerated his way through the gears he felt completely at ease behind the handlebars. He lifted his head and spied the truck turning off the next main road. He followed as best he could, but it was not easy in the intense traffic and immense heat of the day. On the other hand, being on a bike, he was able to traverse and negotiate the sluggish traffic more easily than the thieves in the truck, and he zoomed onto the pavement and cut across a busy intersection. Both he and the truck pulled up at a set of traffic lights and as they waited for the lights to change, Laurence thought of his plan. He realised that there was no hope of stopping the truck on a bicycle. His only chance of recovering the Box was to try and keep up with the robbers for as long as possible in order to figure out where they were going, who they were and what they were planning to do with the Box. The lights changed and the truck surged into life, establishing an early lead over Laurence’s rusty bicycle, and as he tried to find ten to two with his pedals he got covered in a thick cloud of exhaust fumes. By the time he was on his way, the truck had reached the half-way point in the next road where it was met by a pedestrian crossing, but oncoming traffic from the right prevented Laurence from following further. Left the truck went and left again and Laurence realised that no matter how hard he pedalled he would not catch up with it at this rate. It was time to find a short cut.
There was a plaza that separated four roads to enable pedestrians to cross, meet and marvel at the splendid architecture on display; each road had a pedestrian crossing at its end, and the plaza itself was dominated by tourist shops and market stalls selling traditional French cuisine and stereotypical fancy dress. The patisseries and charcuteries were populated by overzealous tourists taking ludicrous amounts of photographs and pulling all manner of poses in front of bemused locals. Laurence shifted his bike off the road and onto the pavement, pedalling in the direction of the plaza. The bike stumbled and stuttered unapologetically down the steps and onto the plaza itself, the mass of tourists parting ways as the bicycle came hurtling towards them.
‘Quelquechose! Je suis les champignons, mon lapin!’ Laurence called out to them, indicating his complete lack of French knowledge, as he nursed his injuries from his journey to the centre of the plaza. The flash of several cameras in Laurence’s direction momentarily diverted his attention from the road ahead of him and he inadvertently took the wrong turning out of the plaza, finding himself all alone down a side alley. Further ahead he could hear in raucous roaring and shouts of delight. There was cheering and whistling, chanting and whooping, and he pondered what the reason could be. Was there a football stadium around the corner? Maybe a politician was holding a rally? As he rounded the corner and came out of the side alley the answer became apparent. The Tour de France. Of course, it was the final leg of the Tour, and all participants were furiously sprinting up the famous Champs-Elysees, the most beautiful avenue in the world. Laurence called out to some spectators who were assembled on the pavement in front of him and within an instant he was on the road itself, the final straight of the Tour de France. A quick glance behind him saw the dozens of multi-coloured jacket-wearing cyclists that he used to watch on television every summer with his father, and now the assortment of worn-out and exasperated cyclists were powering up the road behind him as he pushed on; the bemused spectators kept on cheering despite the introduction of this new challenger.
Before he knew what was happening, Laurence had burst through the finishing line and through the line of journalists, reporters and spectators and out onto the road behind them. He had ‘won’ the race, but lost the truck. He turned back to see thousands of cameras blinking with a series of tremendous flashes after him. The sound of sirens echoed in the distance. No doubt he was in trouble, but not as much trouble as those thieves would be when he caught up with them. As the bike exited one road and came into a narrow parade, Laurence saw the truck far in the distance and it was coming straight towards him. The sight brought renewed vigour to his aching limbs. He needed to gain speed and distance, and avoid being killed. The juggernaut was hurtling ever closer toward him but out of the corner of his eye, Laurence spied salvation. At the side of the road was a builders’ minivan, with a long trailer behind it. The trailer was overflowing with planks of wood that protruded forth from the top and bottom, forming a makeshift ramp. As Laurence swerved to avoid an oncoming taxi that was disobeying the laws of the road, he found himself cycling up the ramp. Up he went, and with a whoosh he quickly soared into the air, flying over the thieves van, and, just as rapidly, crashed to the pavement below. He had travelled some distance, sailing over one or two cars, but his landing was poor, and he greeted a skip full of mattresses with a soft crash. He clambered out of the skip and fell to the ground, the adrenaline of the high octane pursuit still coursing through his body.
Exhausted and defeated, he got to his feet, gathered up the bike and looked up and down the road. Silence. There was no one around and neither was the truck. He had lost it. He had failed. Aghast at this defeat, he dusted off his trousers. Distraught, deflated and dehydrated, he looked up to the sun and headed in the direction of the ‘Paris Museum of Ancient History’.
Chapter Six
Trains in Vain