Page 75 of Terminal Voyage

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Iraced past houses and duplexes painted in mint green, cornflower blue, and pastel yellow.

Horns honked and grills ate the pavement as I veered left across traffic, onto a side street.

I blazed past empty lots and little more than shanties with peeling paint and dry rot.

The sportbikes rounded the corner, their engines howling.

With the throttle full out, I raced down the boulevard past decrepit structures and abandoned buildings coated with grime. I banked a hard left on a one-way and weaved around slower cars. Parked vehicles on both sides of the road narrowed the lane.

After a quick right, I throttled up and raced past a tire shop.

The sportbikes caught up in no time.

This time, the dirtbag came up behind me and swung the bat hard.

I ducked, and the bat grazed my spine as he swung.

The other ass clown kicked my scooter, which sent me into a shimmy.

I tried to regain control, but veered left, careening straight for a parked car. I crashed into it and went flying over the handlebars.

The few seconds I was airborne felt like an eternity.

Everything slowed down.

If God wanted me to fly, he’d have given me wings. I certainly would have taken them.

Catapulted over the vehicle, I crashed onto the grassy dirt of an empty lot and tumbled. It was a miracle I missed the palm tree.

That would have been painful.

The dirt was no picnic, but it was a lot better than a tree trunk or concrete.

The tumble lessened the impact.

When I came to a stop, I was scuffed and scraped. Numb from the adrenaline.

I didn't think I'd broken anything.

The scumbags on the sportbikes screeched to a halt, climbed off, and marched in my direction. Slugger looked like he was ready to finish the job.

Guys from the tire shop came running to see if I was okay. They'd seen the whole interaction. With tire irons in their hands, they squared off against the thugs.

After a brief standoff, the goons backed off. They hurried back to the bikes and took off. Exhausts rattled as they disappeared into the city.

"Are you okay?" a guy from the tire shop asked, extending his hand.

I took it, and he helped me to my feet.

"I think so," I said, dusting away the grass and dirt.

"You’re bleeding," he said. "I have some bandages."

One of them grabbed my e-bike, while the other escorted me back to the tire shop, which was really just a lot with a bunch of half-tread tires, a carport, and a machine to remove the tire from the rim. Blood trickled down my elbow and my knee. By the time I got back to the tire shop, I was limping a little, and the soreness had set in.

Francisco grabbed a first-aid kit. I figured if you worked in a tire shop, there were a lot of busted knuckles and smashed fingers. With some peroxide, he cleaned the wounds and bandaged them.