Cold Sweat
by Nick Lodge

Air whistles its way around my body like a persuant siren. It buffets my head in violent gusts of resistance. I push harder. I hear a piercing chirp from behind me as the curve nears. 30mph. Hah. I hunker forward and lean past my mirrors, muscling the handlebars. The bike whips over and locks into a lean as if in a photograph. I am crouched, taut as wire, eyes burning a line through the road. Every blurred dimple in the road is visible for the fifteen feet I can see around the curve. The turn lifts above, circling around itself, spiraling into infinity. It never ends. The monotone drone of the engine wavers. I sway from one side of the road to the other as I climb higher. Finaly the curve straightens ahead. I start to bring the bike upright. Sand. Sand reaches as far as I can see. Desperately I try to straigten out before I hit. I watch the sand appraoch. It hits in slow motion. I'm unable to move. The bike dissapears beneith me, as does the ground. For a moment, I can fly. I'm not falling. I fall. Sand permeates my body, scraping and scuffing every inch. The world is nothing but a light brown cloud brimming with fists. I skitter across the ground, flipping and rolling clumbsily. Suddenly the cloud parts to reveal a tree. Black and harsh fills my view. I feel no impact.

In a cold sweat, I wake.