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Push.

Gear up. Wind in my face. Legs moving now. A solitary experience, one that allows me time with my thoughts. Double-edged sword, that.

Dad thoughts. (Pedal harder.) Job thoughts. (Pedal harder.) What about the future? (Faster.) I've got nothing to eat at home. (Push.) God, I want to taste a woman's inner thigh. (Faster, faster.)

Top gear now. Legs screaming. Breath coming in ragged gasps. Landscape blurring. Sweat on the small of my back. The sound of wind buffeting the spokes, and rubber meeting pavement.

You'll never be anything. (Push. PUSH.) Worthless. (Harder. Faster.) You're wasting your time. (Just pedal. Harder. More.)

I. Can't. Breathe. (Pedal.)

Sweat in rivulets down my neck, in my eyes. (Pedal!)

Mouth a desert. (PEDAL.)

I can't think of anything but the pain.

(Coast.)