There was nothing to do and I didn’t have any money and the guys didn’t play in the streets on Sunday. I decided that the beach belonged to everybody. I had a right. My scars and boils weren’t against the law.
So we got on our bikes and started out. It was fifteen miles. That didn’t bother me. I had the legs.
I breezed with Jimmy all the way to Culver City. Then I gradually began to pedal faster. Jimmy pumped, trying to keep up. I could see him getting winded. I pulled out a cigarette and lit up, held out the pack to him. ‘Want one, Jim?’
‘No… thanks…’
‘This beats shooting birds with a beebee gun,’ I told him. ‘We ought to do this more often!’
I began pumping harder. I still had plenty of reserve strength.
‘This really gets it,’ I told him. ‘This beats whacking off!’
‘Hey, slow up a little!’
I looked back at him. ‘There’s nothing like a good friend to go biking with. Come on, friend!’
Then I gave it all I had and pulled away. The wind was blowing in my face. It felt good.
‘Hey, wait! WAIT, GOD DAMN IT!’ yelled Jimmy.
I started laughing and really opened up. Soon Jim was half a block back, a bock, two blocks. Nobody knew how good I was, nobody knew what I could do. I was some kind of miracle. The sun tossed yellow everywhere and I cut through it, a crazy knife on wheels. My father was a beggar in the streets of India but all the women loved me…
