Page 4 of Devil Inside

Not that you’ll hear me complain. Honestly? I don’t know what else I’m good for. Just riding. Grinding. Speeding through these streets. That’s all I’ve got. All I am.

Just a good ol’ red-blooded speed demon.

I did a stint in one of those shipping companies, working in a warehouse all day, packing up toiletries, toothpaste, and shampoo, delivered directly to your front door. I nearly lost my mind. I couldn’t stand still for eight hours. I needed to be out here, in the streets.

Welcome to my office.

Shall we?

My bike: Fixed gear. Double-butted 4130 chromoly steel tubing. Matte black. TIG welded wishbone rear. 38X700c tires. Horizontal dropouts with integrated chain-tensioners. Sealed hubs. Equipped with all-road gravel drops, laced with a sealed-bearing flip-flop hub. Perfect for taking on this city.

I saddle up. Slide my satchel back over my shoulder. Foot on the pedal, lift, shift the weight down, lift the other foot off the ground, find my balance, recalibrate my weight, then push off and enter the mainline, a fucking jolt of electricity injected into the vein of this city.

Let’s hit the streets.

Traffic has already begun to clot around Boulevard. Two lanes of standstill heading in both directions make that street a no-go. I can cut across Robinson and make my way through the Fan, which is all residential. Less cholesterol on these streets. Makes for easy drifting. I’ve got my Walkman strapped down, headphones in, music on. It’s a cassette player. None of that Discman bullshit. CDs skip way too much. I’ve got hose.got.cable’s new demo in and it’s giving this city the soundtrack I need. A big no-no, I know-know. You got to keep your ears open for all the horns honking, but some mornings you just need the extra adrenaline to get you going.

Couriers are creatures of these streets, animals that ebb and flow around the lumbering beasts of buses and trucks. The laws of the road don’t apply to us.

Here’s the thing: Everyone honks at us. Everybody else on the road hates us. That’s because we’re free, fuckingfree, unbound by the traffic patterns everyone else follows. We find a flow, entering the jet stream of traffic that has absolutely fuck-all to do with painted lines and traffic lights and everything, everything to do with intuition. With instinct.

I’m abandoning my sadness. Keeping my depression in the rearview. I can outride my own mind, sometimes, racing so fast through Richmond, faster than the speed of dysthymia, until I’m no longer lost in my thoughts. The sorrow can’t catch up to me now.

You better believe I’ll take it. I’ll get out of my skull any chance I can get.

Some days, I swear I hear whispers just over my shoulder. Voices at my back, calling for me. Pulling on me. Dragging me down. I have to outrun them, so I pedal faster.Harder.

Never let them catch me.

Consume me.

The package is waiting for pickup in Highland Park. Clock’s ticking. Twenty-seven minutes to go. Nineteen, if I’m winning that bet.

Gotta go

go

go

The brownstones pack in so tightly down here in the Fan, looking like wooden teeth to me. George Washington’s crookedgrin, all splintered. There’s a cover of trees that turn yellow this time of year. They’re starting to fall, paving the street in a slippery organic mat. No lawns down here. Nothing but sidewalks, so those leaves cover everything. Make it a hazard if you need to brake quick. Best to avoid these blocks as much as possible in a rush.

The music’s getting me across Robinson. I got Chris Wade’s guitars grinding in my ears when I pass World Cup, catching a whiff of their roasted coffee beans, fueling me for a few more blocks.

There’s a lot of construction on Broad, so rush hour is an aneurysm around here. Best to avoid it. I hook a left on Broad for barely a block, then it’s left onto a back road. Gravel and glass. I don’t know if this street even has a name. No time to look at the signs.

Gotta go

go

go

An intern’s standing outside his office park, pacing like he’s the last motherfucker left on theTitanic, basted in a thin layer of sweat. Here it is, not even eight o’ ten and this kid is downright perspiring. The sun won’t reach its peak for another few hours, but the humidity’s getting thick around here. This poor guy’s about to have a coronary at twenty.

“Please,” he begs. “My boss is going to kill me if it’s not there in the next—” He checks his watch, blanches, eyes so wide. “Shit. Seventeen minutes.”

“All good, all good,” I try to console him. “Just sign here and I’ll be on my way.”

“Can you make it?”