The buzzing and humming of thin tyres on tarmac. Speed up, head down, descent approaching. I was living -inside- the constant sound produced by rubber/tarmac contact and made sure it kept producing, like a God thoughtlessly spinning the hand crank that keeps their unstable universe going. The descent comes and an unaerodynamic head creates the impression of strong winds, the buzzing intensifies and the bicycle wobbles. How reasonable is this much wobbling?!

A fierce clanging as the bicycle rams into the wooden deck of a British troop transport journeying to the revolting colonies. Indeed, a British troop transport. I have it on good authority that they were sailing 3000 horrendously boring miles to quell the American revolution, though they would arrive at a changed situation and returning a message to the government at home would take another two months, and then another two months to get back, at which point the situation would again have changed, and the mail server was down due to overheated cabling caused by a nest of land-based manatees.

Scruffy lads gathered around me, with urgent demeanors.
“Park the meter in diametric points of view!”
“Excuse me?”, I said.
“Do his nostrils smell?”, “Stifle the pig sty!” and “Bloody the thick curtains of ineptitude!” they replied.
These people were clearly speaking English. Had I crashed my bike, landed in a coma and started hallucinating?

I said: “Excuse me, can I speak to the captain? Also, I think I’ve hurt myself.”
They looked at me as if I had just told them Ra is coming.
“Forsooth!”, one said, “If a warthog ends up in a ditch, will he run back and forth or desperately attempt to claw his way out?”
I thought that would have to be a matter of experimentation.