The Bike Ride

The Bike Ride
By: Jordan Willbanks


Summer is like the weekend, it takes forever for it to arrive and before you even have the chance to enjoy it, it is gone. It seems to always happen that way.
Oakridge, New York was as depressing as many small towns. It was a town of forgotten history and plastic smiles. Everyone seemed to hold the appearance of happiness close to them but the sad truth was most wanted out. Many felt that way deep inside and let it rest forgotten in the far corners of their minds—repressed memories and repressed thoughts.

Drake McDermont was a new addition to Oakridge and a new face to the faculty, staff, and student body of the Junior and Senior high school. Drake was formerly from Brooklyn. He had climbed many ladders and shook many hands. He became a relished and celebrated educator. However, he was simply a new face to gawk at in Oakridge. He was one from the outer-limits.
Drake fancied the history of the town. Only a few short miles from his new house was a former location of the Underground Railroad. Apart from that segment in history, there were many caves which were hidden by crystal-clear waters. There were miles and miles upon rarely frequented trails. The land smelled of freshly groomed farms and countering the flat fields were intense areas of dense foliage. The stars were visible at night and the moon was touchable with the aid from powerful lenses. The lake was at Drake’s bedpost where the murky depths were home to an array of creatures and wildlife. Oakridge’s taken-for-granted magnificence was indeed the ex-professor’s medicine.

The realtor was fond of individuals like Drake—the ones who entered the houses they are considering buying and automatically are intrigued and ready for the down-payment.
Drake had not been in Oakridge long before he stepped into the house he would soon occupy. He had rented a room from the only motel in town and sifted through the classifieds diligently in search of a house bordering the lake.
The house was marvelous. It was indeed a stereotype. It was left in prestige condition and Drake adored the neatly groomed terrain it was rested on. There were neat-yet-staggered clusters of conifers and maples and a blossoming garden which grazed the front of the house. It seemed as if the house was recently constructed, for the caretaker had kept it in prime condition. Drake was pleased to be informed—like the town just a few miles away—the house was a place of history. It had traces back to a family of wealthy landowners who in fact paid a grant to construct the schools in Oakridge. After generations of the family had long been deceased the remaining family had been dispersed throughout the continent thus leaving the beauteous wonder forgotten.
The whit paint had been restored, the roof had been recently tarred, the blue shutters and the red front door had been set with a fresh coat of paint. The posterior end had gallant French windows that looked out toward the rippling tide. There was a small white boathouse and a long metal dock.
Drake had been taken by the large fireplace in the living room, it welcomed books and comfortable sofas. The floor was unscarred and had been recently waxed. He ogled at the small island in the large kitchen. Cut neatly between the gray marble counters new appliances had been placed. The microwave was cleverly installed above the stove and the cabinets still smelled of rich finish. Naturally, Drake McDermont was in love.

Moving in was not much of a chore. He was enthusiastic and found the task quite exhilarating. He was starting over. His life in Brooklyn had ended. He knew not a soul in Oakridge and most important, he had no past. Not much time had passed before the pronounced professor became fond of his rejuvenation.
Drake was excited to explore the places not many people remembered, or even cared to remember. Perhaps he would find a new wife, maybe even have another kid. Hell, he thought about buying cat—he always loved cats.
The last place the realtor showed him was the garage. It matched the exterior of the house in every way. It was the same color, shape, two stories, and it was immense. It was as if the house, the boathouse, and the garage were family.
The realtor apologized to Drake, he explained that the garage was not cleaned up as well as the rest of the package. The garage had an attic, which was the entire second floor, he regretfully informed Drake there were still much of the previous family’s belongings up there. To the realtor’s surprise, Drake was overjoyed. He admired the fact that the belongings left behind were antique-collectors-items. 1950s and early 1960s mementos tickled him. They were small reminders of his child-life. Strewn about the second floor was, a rusted soda machine, yellow Tops cigarette tins, wooden cigar boxes, aged advertisements, wooden furniture, and an small yellow stove. What intrigued him most was a bright orange bicycle.

After Drake moved in, he found himself searching high and low in the garage for an air-pump. The tires were sagging and he wanted to replenish them so he could catch a glimpse of the summer countryside.
He already had planned to travel the gravel road from his house to the paved main road. The main road followed the boarders of the pine forest, hidden cottages, and overgrown shacks. Every couple of miles there would be a sudden stretch of flat farmland and without foreshadowing the farmland would disappear into the dark woods.
Drake came across a rusted air-pump. He hauled the large bicycle down the wooden stairs into the garage. He watched as the bike jolted with air, coming to life. Drake rubbed the dusty bicycle with a shimmy-cloth and let the dust float in the air.
He frequented the garage every night to give it a nice once-over and ultimately parked it between his lawnmower and Buick.
Drake was pleased he would not have to venture fifteen minutes out of Oakridge to purchase a bike for the absurd prices the local stores would ask for. He came to the conclusion he would go for a bike ride at least once a day. It wasn’t only to stimulate his brain, but be productive and healthy.
Everyday Drake traveled the main road for a number of miles. He absorbed the wonderful nature around him. Every day seemed to get better and he felt more alive.


Drake McDermont arose. His covers were strewn about the floor and his sheets were matted by his naked feet. A cool lake draft blew on him through the cracked window.
He could hear the flutter of wings in the distance and the soft soothing drift of the water. In the kitchen downstairs, he could hear the sudden grinding of coffee beans from his automatic coffee maker.
Drake became immersed in the thickness of his dark green bathrobe. As he made his descent, the stairs didn’t even whine under the pressure of his feet. He studied the pictures he had placed on the wall by the stairs and chuckled at the memories of his childhood. He chuckled at the sweet nostalgia it brought upon him.
There were many photographs displayed throughout the house and there were many that were not.

Drake sucked in the lingering scent of hazelnut as he sat down at the kitchen table. He clutched the morning paper and his fingers traced the sentences. He nursed himself with warm sweet coffee and he nursed his mind with the latest news the world had brought to his doorstep.
Drake was startled by the sudden spring of the toaster, forgetting he had put down an English muffin. He looked at his finger tips as he took his time to rise, he wiped off the black ink garnished on them.
Around noon, after Drake shut the door softly behind him and after he trudged up the hilly slope toward the garage he straddled his newly acquired bike. The tires clicked continuously as he departed the garage. With his remote he closed the garage door behind him. Drake wore his pack strapped tightly to his back and he rested his helmet on his head.

He let the gravel road guide the way. He past a neat row of mailboxes at the end of his road and watched as the gravel transition to black pavement. He past a hidden house and gazed upon robins and sparrows flying effortlessly in the sky. He noticed a placid blue jay perched on a mailbox and above there was a large hawk’s nest resting on a telephone pole. Drake shot a friendly look to a group of curious children playing on the outskirts of the woods. He breathed in the summer air, the smell of pine and earth was pleasantly overwhelming.
Drake paused and gave a wave to passing locomotive. He took a sip from his water bottle and adjusted his helmet. He turned his naked wrist towards him.
“Where’s my watching?” he asked himself involuntarily.
He was not even aware he had spoken, it had been awhile since he heard his own voice. He simply shook his head, he was not worried—he had all day, all week, and the following week before he had to report to the highschool.
He flew downhill, he was miles away from his house. Not even the lake was to be found. It would be hard to know if such a thing existed in such close proximity.
Drake’s bike coasted downhill and he commenced pedaling at the bottom. He applied the breaks harshly when he saw a concealed pathway leading into the woods. He turned the handle-bars towards it and pumped his legs. It appeared the trail had not been touched by hikers’ feet or tires in years. Ambitious blades of grass had began to pull through the rocky path, the only tracks visible were those of deer.
Drake studied the canape of trees, the clear blue sky had seemingly been omitted from existence. Drake soon felt cloaked in darkness as if the day had turned to night.
The path so far, was a steady downward slope. It was cit short by an upward jut in the land. He looked forward, the rocky path vanished turning into dirt and lichen. His tires aggressively pushed over the rocks below. The ex-professor removed himself from the bicycle. He undid the snaps on his helmet and rested it on the handlebars. He walked over to a massive oak and stroked its massive trunk. Just five steps from him was a large blanket of bedrock. He crouched over and admired the traces of history tattooed on the sheet of rock.
He saw the path arch downward. He slowly approached it and was cut off by a sudden burst of thunder. He gave a pathetic jerk followed by nervous laughter. He retreated to his bike and looked upwards at the tree-covered sky. Drake felt light tapping on his face as small droplets cleared their way through the small gaps in the canape. He took in some air through his nostrils to smell the fresh rain. He smiled and closed his eyes and the drops spattered on his glasses, even with his eyes closed tightly he could see a bright flash.
The rain began to plummet like hail. The trees twisted and contorted in the painful gusts of wind. Drake stood over his bike and made a decision.
“If the rain doesn’t stop before I finish this apple,” he polished an apple from his pack on his knee. “then I’m gone...” He waited, as if he was going to get an answer.
The rain formed beads on the ripe fruit and he waited patiently. His canines ripped through the flesh of the apple and he sucked up the juices with an audible slurp. He wished he had brought his hiking boots and a rain coat. Perhaps a cell phone—if he knew anyone in the town.
Drake finished the apple and tosses the core into the brush. The rain continued and he decided he would finish his trek the following day.

The ride back was exhilarating, he pumped his feet harder once he met up with the paved road. Drake daringly and dangerously zipped up and down the sparkling pavement. He did not think of the potential disaster of the tires hydroplaning in the slick road.
He began humming to himself, he did not notice he was humming his wife’s favorite Paul Simon song.
Drake let the drops strike him, he couldn’t even feel the harshness of their blows. He passed the neatly grouped mailboxes and before long he was at his own.
The rain subsided upon his arrival.

* * *

Drake woke up. The sounds of tires and shattering glass had pierced his ears. He hated that sound, and lately it had been seeming more violent and disturbing. He hated those recurring dreams, the midnight terrors.
He let the thought of his vivid dream leave him as he caught his breath and wiped sweat from his brow. He thought of the trail. The trail was so intriguing, he had to return. He had to see where it lead to. It had drawn him in like the hooks of the wonderful literature he, himself studied.
That night he had rushed through his paperwork. He did not scrutinize every conceivable detail he would be teaching. The highlighter only pressed against a handful of sentences and it rarely coated a paragraph. He once was prone to dissect every detail, every metaphor, every simile, all of the symbols, the theme. Such the intellectual he was and he had not even noticed the work in his own book he needed to highlight and dissect.
All Drake could think about was the concealed pathway.

Drake had not even bothered to eat breakfast. He drank a cup of coffee and watched the chilled water from the chrome faucet fill up his plastic water bottle. He grabbed for the last apple in the bag and polished it well before he tossed it into his pack. He watched the weather channel before he left. With an adrenaline-ridden nod he came to the conclusion to pack his jacket and boots. The forecast had not called for rain but he wanted to be prepared.
“Nothing is going to keep me off of that trail.”
He remembered his watch and fastened it to his wrist. He even switched his pair of glasses for an older pair. He closed the door sharply behind him and approached the large garage.

Once again, Drake passed the row of mailboxes at the end of the road. That day they laid like a row of crooked teeth. Splinters of wood were scattered on the pavement. Black skid marks trailed by them ridden with broken glass. He was pleased to find that it wasn’t a dream after all. He admired the marks and debris, letting his feet tip-toe the ground.
He rode on much slower than before, probing for the clearing in the woods. He passed one of the many ramshackle houses. It appeared to be deserted. The wood of the house had faded to a dull grey and plant life had converged with the wood in a nearly successful attempt to take it over. A rusted tractor, bigger than his car, was in the messy yard. Had I gone this far yesterday? He asked himself.
He sped up and rushed beyond the old house which sent chills through his body. Drake briefly over his shoulder. A man as old as the Earth suddenly appeared next to the tractor. He gazed at Drake and stared deeply at him with cold grey eyes. Drake looked back at the man and watched as he disappeared behind a paved dip in the road.
Drake continued for a few miles. He shuddered from the coldness the old man had given him. And right before his eyes, the trail.
The trees and the brush had sensed his arrival, it was as if nature had opened the path just for him. His front tire wobbled in discomfort as it kissed the terrain. The ex-professor groaned as he used all of his strength to ascend one of many hills. It had not seemed so tedious and difficult the day before. He thought he was absolutely fit for the task he brought upon himself. Drake passed the blanket of sedimentary rock and reached the crest of yet another hill. He smiled as he examined his surroundings, pleased he made it up the hill without aiding his bike with the use of his feet. He paused at the bottom of the hill and tried to catch his breath. He began to resume his ride. The rocks dispersed and formed dirt.
There was a startling crack of thunder. Drake was stunned without being warned with a flash of light. His wheel gave a lame wobble and as if the man himself was struck by a bolt of electricity he kissed the dirty forest floor.

There was a flash of red and not even a fraction of a second later, darkness.
The teacher had not even seen the painful crash of the bike. He didn’t see the tire turning in the air, it was as if his life had been cut off and been replaced with a reel of black film.
Drake was unaware of how much time had past when he regained consciousness. When it came back his vision was a hazy blur. He was laying on his back. In his lop-sided point of view he barely saw discernable traces of a quarry below. The path had ended, there was nothing of substance beyond. His head pounded, and he remembered right then and there that his helmet was still resting on the rubber coated hook in the garage. That rocky void was the trail! He thought bitterly to himself. He was angry yet pleased he had not taken the path of Humpty Dumpty before the forty-foot drop.
Drake’s stomach rose up and down steadily. He hacked and coughed. He did not feel much pain, perhaps he was in shock. He struck the ground as a hammer strikes a nail, and like the nail he was truly lodged. He ordered his arms to move and they did not obey. He attempted another time. He commenced to whimper. He could not even make a sound, it had been muted to the sound of escaping air. He tried his legs, they too were not listening. Next he tried his fingers then his toes. They all appeared to be in the deepest of slumbers. He could tell the weren’t asleep, they were closer to death. His breaths became shorter and more frequent, he felt overwhelmed with anxiety He saw another flash which was followed by a loud crack of thunder. The wind blew as if it were angry at the world. Did I break my back? Or my neck? I sure hit that ground hard! I must’ve... he thought.
His eyes imitated his chest, opening and closing at nearly the same pace. He could sense in his blurred vision that the forest was dark. There were wooden giants towering over him, they lunged at him, trying to grasp him with their clawed branches. On the claws were hellish demons. They were perched with blood-red eyes, their black wings fluttered and they laughed viciously at the paralyzed ex-professor.
“How cherished and distinguished are you now, Drake McDermont? You’re just like every character you failed to remember, you’re like every ignorant victim and now you will end up like them!” The legion of ravens snickered and hooted ever so rancorously.
The wind continued to blow brisk and bitter gusts. It felt like a charred yet cold hell. It was not the attractive trail he was so stricken by—so to speak.
There was another flash and it was followed by a bass-toned belch. The leaves spoke of sorrow. The leaves from the giant oak were pulled down, the needles on the conifers became brittle and worn. A few leaves fell upon Drake’s brow, followed by cold drops.
His tears compiled with the rain on his face. The tears were warm. Were they tears? Or had the series of events conjured up a recipe of blood, water, and tears? What had been broken? What organ pierced? Who would find him? A better question: would he be found?
Drake rested on his back for moments upon moments. The rain had not even attempted to cease, it had grown to torrential sheets which struck him like a thick wall of glass. He tried to move his arms again. The forest was even more horrifying upside-down. The images were even more contorted and disturbing. He managed to turn his neck, it cracked and popped as he scanned the area for his glasses. His eyes failed to focus for him, even squinting did not assist him. He could barely make out that his watch was missing from his wrist. His pack was still strapped to his back and the boots were practically cutting through the vinyl of the pack and the fabric of his shirt.
His watch! He could see it in the distance, he wasn’t sure why it made him so relieved but it did. A lonely ray of sunlight had made it through the smallest crack in the clouds and through a small break in the canape. He could see the light shining on the golden wrist band which allowed it to gleam like some sort of beacon. It glistened in a dim shimmer. It was pressed against a large thick rock which was protruding from the depths of the sub-terrain.
He wanted to know what time it was. How long had he been out for? It didn’t matter, the lense would surely be cracked, he thought. And what the hell is that rock doing there, I didn’t see that before.
He could make out the outline of his bike, it was crushed and crinkled. The aluminum was dented and bent like a puny soda can. Its twisted wheel rested against the rock. He managed to move his neck the other way, on the other side was an identical rock which was escaping from the ground. The tire managed to rotate in the wind, it creaked in a high and painful pitch. He longed for help from his glasses.
Drake was blinded by another flash. Only then had he realized how dark it had gotten. He continued to scrunch his eyes. How he hated the angry sound of the thunder! He really never hated it before but with every crack and every boom it seemed to strike him like a punch to the face. There was another strobe, he was sure there were etchings on the stone he was facing. He could not even think as his thoughts were obstructed by an obnoxious bellow of thunder. He continued to look at the stone. It just appeared as a large blue blob which was even more gnarled by the lack of light and lack of vision. He shook his head violently sending pain through every fiber of his body.
He focused on the other stone. There were etchings on that stone as well, he was certain of it. He waited for another flash, it was the only way to be sure. In hopes for lightening the bursts come few and far between. He waited for a few more minutes. His pulse rose, he felt more tears form followed by chilled sweat. There was a brief strobe. He had not been ready for it. Even though it caught him slightly off guard he saw what he needed to see.
Yes, he thought to himself, they are headstones. He had read these scenarios in Gothic stories and in horror novels and he had not actually understood how frightening they actually were now. He could feel the bodies next to him. He could feel their souls.
He quickly thought of a tale he had showed his students for years at the university. Premature Burial by the astonishing Edgar A. Poe. He coughed in terror. He looked at one of the tombs. The rock was dripping with cold water droplets. The rock was illuminated.
No! It can’t be! He screamed in his head. He let out a pathetic whine.
He sobbed in silence. He knew the name on the epitaph. He turned his head in a painful jerk towards the other stone. He waited for the next burst of light. He knew what was going to be written but he had to make sure, so he waited. His head shook in fright, slowly but surely there was another flash. He continued shaking his head, now in disbelief. Tears streamed from his eyes and phlegm formed in the corners of his mouth in thick strands. He shut his eyes hoping they would be gone when he opened them again.
He took a peek. Dirt had become loosened with the torrents of water allowing the stones to approach Drake. He rested weighted to the muck and the stones inched closer. The graves were suffocating him. They were like a teeming mob of hunters surrounding a frightened fox. They were ready to consume him, crush him, break him in half, crack his bones, when he screamed in silence turn his teeth to dust, and suck him downward into the cold depths of hell. He formed a sentence and was ready to mouth the words. To his surprise he spoke: “I-I-I want them b-b-back. Lord, it w-w-was not my f-fault!”
He felt over come with relief, he did have some control after all! He involuntarily told his arms to strike against the cold and wet slimy stones. He grunted and they shifted easily in the mud. He pushed them away with all of his might but for the life of him he could not hold back the tears. His cries became more audible. Drake was overwhelmed with exhaustion and he flipped painfully onto his stomach. He did not have the strength yet to stand, he still felt weighted to the ground. He assumed push-up position and pressed as hard as he could on the wet terrain. His arms buckled and his face and belly met the ground.
Drake raised his head slowly gasping for breath, which resulted in a huff of mud. He wiped the thick film of mud and blood from the bridge of his nose as he coughed. His eyes could barely open, in the distance he saw headlights drawn on him from the road beyond the quarry. He had not even noticed a road, was there a road? He was afraid perhaps the extended time outside had impaired his judgment.
He waved his arms. He tried to yell, he only coughed up sludge from the back of his throat.
“Just keep waving!” he told himself. “They have to see me!”
The car pivoted and turned directions and drove away. He could almost taste the exhaust. He felt so close yet so far away. His arms grew weak and he let them fall limp to the ground. Drake pounded the ground in disbelief, he pounded again in frustration. Thrice he pounded, the last in repent.
He heard a twig snap from behind him, the snap was followed by soft footsteps in the rain. The grew louder and close by, the mud formed suction betwixt it and wet boots. Drake felt warm breathing on the back of his neck. Whispers convinced him it was Death himself.

The night slowly turned to dawn. Drake felt the last drop of rain strike his matted hair. The ground under him had grown denser and warmer. He turned and the stones were nowhere to be found. He cautiously attempted to rise.
He arched upwards looking at the canape above him. He screamed with joy.
“I’m Okay!” he cried. Once again, he was able to speak.
He bent down and saw his watch hidden in brush. He felt its glass lense, it hadn’t been shattered! Not even moist. He looked at his bike, it was not ruined. The right-side handlebar was just embedded in the dirt and moss. Not even a foot from the handle was Drake’s glasses, they were hidden in a tuft of dewy grass.
He looked up again. The trees woods sounded at peace. The trees were not wooden devils there were no hellish ravens that sang songs of hate and evil. He was alive! Once again, Drake was on the top of the world. He surely had been spared. He looked up at the heavens and saw only the bluest of skies through the leaves. He thanked some immortal being. Drake’s legs arched over the bicycle. He felt his bottom dampen slightly on the dewy seat.
The ex-professor, the soon-to-be highschool English teacher wheeled the bike around and aimed it down the hill. He was well prepared for the descent. He cleared out of the once-cryptic trail. He had never felt so close to death before.

The ride was a pleasant one, once again Drake felt revitalized. He thought of being soaked under the soft and pleasant drizzle of his shower, enjoying the warmth of his comforters, the taste of hazelnut coffee.
He paused in the middle of the road and fished for the rich and ripe apple he had packed. He let the mouth made of jagged zippers swallow his hand. His blood pumped easier now. He was no longer in distress, his heartbeat dampened. He continued to search in the belly of his pack. All he saw were his boots which were still dry and his yellow jacket which was wadded up inside. He obsessively wiped some dirt off of the pack’s exterior.
Drake sighed. He was very hungry he hadn’t eaten in a day. His head pounded in sudden intensity.
“Damn, I brought an apple. I know it.” he continued to fish. “Must’ve—”
He smiled brightly. The apple was hidden in the far corner of the pack, hidden in darkness. He went to grab it when he heard tires screeching as a vehicle descended a dip in the road. He looked up with a startled jump. In the seemingly delayed seconds Drake had left he could see the interior of the locomotive. He shared the same face as the driver. He had the same color hair, the same color eyes, the same skin-tone, the same fear-stricken expression. The passengers were what frightened him most. He recognized both of their faces. He recognized them because they were the faces he had chosen to forget...