Biking Kills

A summer passion of cycling the undulating country roads of France goes sideways, Donavan finds himself being drawn into a slowly expanding nightmare that won’t let go. The simple Cyprus Pine with its majestic and pristine natural “Just Manicured” look draws Don to stop his bike one day at the top of a familiar hill to examine this tall tree that looks like an unfurled Christmas tree from a far. Dismounting ungracefully he looks into the inner walls of a small well kept French forecourt of white lime stone, the base of the three that stands some 35 meters high protruding straight up from an unnaturally perfect circular stone hole in the ground. Taking just one more step he will always wish he never took, the front door opened to a very well dressed and overly muscular man standing in the door frame, the sun now high blinding Don from any detail . “What do you want?” A gruff French deep voice rattled through his bones as he noticed a black squat muscular high end sedan with very low profile tires sitting behind the tree. It was then he decided to use the “Sorry I was looking for some water, I don’t speak French” line, and beat a hasty retreat to his bike and an ungraceful

mount/move off at the same time maneuver. Gears ground as he stood and pushed his bike forward as he heard the deep throaty burr of the cars engine fire up.