The winter of my captivity blanketed my being in cold frosts of despair, dizzying my brain in dank mists of forested misery. My evil captors ridiculed and belittled my need to seek shelter from the constant mists and damps that threatened my health and lightened my skin tone to their own ghastly pallor.
‘See how he is afraid of the sky’s blessing of rain!’ The leader would shout. ‘He is clearly from some foreign land, probably an illegal from the south I surmise! Here, lube my chain! Polish the chrome of my randonneuse. Do better than last time or you will get no crumbs!’
After prostrating myself to the leader I would meekly set myself to my given work, worried that I would not get my precious crumbs; the crumbs that I would toast and mix with herbs from the verge of the camp to make my own ersatz Postum that I survived on.
Surreptitiously hoarding bits of chain and lengths of cable from my maintenance tasks in preparation to repair my bucephalus, I ignored the rust forming on its light weight tubing and tried ever harder to ignore the sight of the mold on the saddle that infested my heart, weakening my resolve daily. The hideous pain of seeing my prized steed bucephalus neglected in the nettles and blackberry of the camp’s ash, dung, and refuse pile stabbed and rent my soul to pieces and I often feared myself lost forever to my servitude.
Some days passed in this condition when the clan, after a bonfire in celebration of some raid on a mountaintop lay passed out in their drunken stupors from too much mead and whiskey. I whispered to a fellow peeing on a tree that I had found some golden threaded super-ballon ne-plus soupple prototype tires and that he should follow me if he wanted them. I knocked the fool senseless and stole his blue jersey, white helmet and sunglasses, and mounted his silvered cycle with the bumply fenders knowing that this disguise would allow me to pass the sentries at camp’s edge.
In passing the sentries I grunted that I was off on a ‘night permanent to assure my Ultra R-12 continuance’ and that I would return at dawn. Fools.
The fool was I, for in my hubris I was not expecting the pursuit and my recapture, but that is yet another tale to tell.