Tuesday 200 — one hundred sixteen
I only had the rear view, a dancer’s glutes pumping away.
What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?
I remember he was peddling rides.
His accent almost unnoticeable (most of these pedicabbers are Bulgarian), he pedaled me away, up and down the hills, never out of breath. Said “I’m Antonio,” asked about my visit.
“I live here.”
“Just when you think you know all the locals.”
Sun shining, yesterday’s layer of airbrushed clouds now hidden, sky as blue as I envisioned Antonio’s eyes.
Alas, I only had the rear view, a dancer’s glutes pumping away.
I remember a Connecticut-plated rental creeping downhill, keeping us from building momentum for the next incline.
The sedan slowed down, pulling to the right.
Unexpected as a skirt billowing up from a sudden pirouette, the Connecticunt, completely sans signal, lurched in front of us, turning left.
Our vehicle now a chariot, Antonio’s (my gladiator!) lightning reflexes jerking us onto a gravel driveway, skidding ahead of the car.
I don’t remember slamming into the metal carriage, leaving my elbow bleeding.
I don’t remember Antonio dismounting — he was standing beside me, saying “sit tight” (his English much better than expected), and went to the driver, calmly scolding “you did not signal.”
The driver just smiled. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t back up.
Maybe they had no English?