Plain was looking particularly lovely the night the aliens abducted
me and I subsequently saved the earth from annihilation.
Cruising along the
A344 under a sky dancing with stars I suddenly found myself spinning
quite madly, like Lance on amphetamines (perish the thought). None of
my gears were working. Then my front light cut out. I glided to a stop
along the shoulder.
It was quite late and I had the road to myself, just me and the moons
- one at my back, the other directly over the ancient monument in the
near distance. I was thinking that it was handy that there were two
moons out this evening, what with my headlight on the blink, when a
chill crept slowly down my spine, spun a spiderweb in my vertebra and
nestled there, radiating cold fear. Something clearly wasn't right.
I examined the chain, hoping that the almost primal alarm I felt was
somehow bike-related, when the moon over Stonehenge abruptly divided.
That just seemed silly. There aren't three of them. Come to think
I studied the bright orb over my shoulder, comforting and familiar in
all its pockmarked glory, and fancied I could even make out the sea
of tranquillity. It was something to focus on while the sensible part
of my brain tumbled the various possibilities, from weather balloons
to top secret military aircraft flying in perfect formation to the obvious,
that this was just a dream, when the two fake moons got a hundred times
brighter and closer, flinging my giant shadow across the now eerily
well-lit landscape. I nervously scratched my ear and frightened some
sheep half a mile away.
Two gigantic spinning wheels were descending from on high, each with
a thousand spokes glinting a thousand different colours which from a
distance had fused into a brilliant bright white. They were connected
by a frame a fashionable shade of black hole with horsehead nebula decals.
The celestial bicycle landed and settled itself against one of the megalithic
A door in the saddle opened and an alien hopped nimbly out onto a well-developed
pair of purple legs. From the waist up he was a textbook example of
function over form - there were interesting protuberances everywhere,
and I stopped counting after five mouths. There was also an umbrella
on his head, or else he was happy to see me. He swiftly bounded over
on those incredibly muscled legs before I even had time to catch a fright.
Naturally, I was speechless. What do you say to a close encounter of
the first kind? "Shall I take you to my leader?" "How
did you find us - was it the reruns?" I didn't want to cause a
diplomatic incident. The alien just stood silently contemplating me
and my bike. A few of his eyes bored through my skull while the majority
of them seemed riveted by my bike, but the remainder glanced impatiently
at what appeared to be a watch on what appeared to be a wrist and that
seemed to motivate him.
Dispensing with pleasantries grand or trifling, he simply said "Follow
me." I understood instantly not because he had taught himself how
to speak perfect English on the long trip over from Alpha Centauri,
or given me a babelfish à la the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy,
but thanks to subtitles, discreetly projected just below one of the
mouths on his chest. As I'd always used these when watching foreign
films or Fred Dibnah, they didn't bother me.
When an extraterrestrial says "Follow me" your options are limited,
so I pushed my bike over to Stonehenge. He gallantly helped me lift
it over the fence and I accepted a boost up into the saddle, which utilized
advanced technology capable of folding dimensions to make a small room
appear deceptively spacious, in estate agent parlance.
He wasn't alone. He introduced me to his "peleton" (at least that was
the translation), each of whom sported an exquisitely unpronounceable
name followed by an easily digestible nickname, like "Fred", and "Barry".
My increasing sangfroid at this incredible situation was probably a
result of extensive conditioning: thousands of hours of sci-fi in books,
movies and TV had finally come in handy for something other than pub
quiz night. Also, if ET rode on two wheels he couldn't be all bad, could
"You haven't taken very good care of our bike rack," said Fred in a
subtitle that practically leapt off his chest and slapped me in the
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," I answered
even as it dawned on me. Surely they were joking.
"We only just put it up, and now look at it," said Bobyxxl8uyzrrrzyl,
or Bob, the alien who had brought me to the celestial bike.
"But Stonehenge is 5,000 years old!" I yelped, thrown for a loop.
"5,000 years for you, last Tuesday for us," said Bob, shaking his heads
There wasn't much I could say to that, so I kept my trap shut. "How
can it breathe?" muttered Fred to himself.
Evidently not one for gruesome small talk, Bob got to the point of their
"So. Are you fond of Earth, then?"
I didn't like the sound of this.
"The Lonely Planets Guide says it's lovely in the spring,"
chirped Barry. Bob shot him a look. "I was only trying to cheer
him up," said Barry, his gills fluttering defensively.
Why would I need cheering up? "Have you got something you want to tell
me, Bobyxxl8uyzrrrzyl?" I asked, unconsciously adopting the galaxy-wide
convention of using his full name to show displeasure. Bob shuffled
from foot to foot to foot and his two heads conferred privately. Barry
whistled nervously, which sent a passing flock of birds plummeting.
Fred glared at me, though he was only using three eyes so he couldn't
have been that mad.
Bob's tete-a-tete concluded, his heads nodding in agreement with each
other. "Every epoch the advanced civilizations have an intergalactic
bike race," he finally said after clearing a spare throat. "The
winners are showered with every luxury and live like kings. The losers
are utterly annihilated, their atoms scattered to the four solar winds
and the entire history of their civilization expunged from all databases."
"Yes, we've eased up a bit on the losers," said Fred. 'these
days we don't destroy their actual planet if it looks like it would
make a good council tip. And another bike rack never hurt anybody."
He gestured at the world heritage site.
"As you can imagine," continued Bob, 'this narrows the field somewhat
over time. We're always looking for new blood."
"So we seed the galaxy," interjected Barry, anxious not to
be exiled from the conversation. "Then we come back to reap the
rewards of healthy competition. Your Darwin put it best: survival of
the fittest. He was a shiny penny, that one."
I was feeling dizzy. "What seeds?"
"Didn't you get the wheel we dropped off?" said Bob.
"Do you mean to tell me mankind didn't invent the wheel? Our most basic
invention was alien technology?" I sputtered, mortified.
"Oh, you would've got around to it sooner or later," soothed Barry.
"Probably later," said Fred.
"Yes, well the point is you finally managed to invent the bicycle,"
said Bob. "Which shows that humans aren't all bad. It's unfortunate
you haven't really grabbed the ball and run with it, but a bike's a
bike. One wheel good, two wheels better. The basic skill set is there.
I was taken aback but not completely surprised. To be honest I was almost
expecting it; the broad plot if not these particular details. "Let
me get this straight. Earthlings are to compete in this 'Tour de universe'
and if we come in last you"ll blow up things like they did in Independence
Day? And all the people too?" I didn't have an active social
calendar, but I was fond of people on principle.
"That's it in a kfdikut77shell," said Bob. "We saw that
videotape too. Highly amusing."
"You're an advanced civilization and you still watch videotapes?" I
asked, perhaps tangentially to the thrust of our conversation but stalling
for time to think of a way to get my planet out of this jam.
"You have DVD? We don't have DVD." Bob's mood darkened. "Anyway, it's
settled. Good luck."
Obviously no diplomat, I lacked the necessary talent as a cycling saviour
as well. "Surely you"ll want our finest athlete. I"ll
give you directions."
Bob had already walked away. Fred looked at me, pity in his vermilion
eyes. "You'll do."
Everyone put their helmets on and we lifted off from the dark Salisbury
Plain. I hoped that wasn't the last I'd see of Earth. At first I was
left to my own devices as we made our way to the first stage, but the
ever compassionate Barry dropped in unannounced for a pep talk.
"Race starts tomorrow. You'll be fine. I've watched that Tour
de France thingie."
"You've got the wrong guy!" I almost wailed. "I've
never even done the London to Brighton. it's not fair to put all this
on my head."
Barry fidgeted miserably. "Bob was adamant. He said "What
does it matter? They all look the same to me anyway." I'm really
sorry." He patted me on the shoulder, coating it with an unpleasant
wet slime which burned off a patch of my cycling jersey. Despite this
it was impossible not to like him.
"We're not so different," he said. "We've even had similar
problems with our own Tour. The drugs scandals just won't go away. Last
time the methane-breathing entities of Yenrod 6 were caught sniffing
nitrogen, and the Belgians had alligators in their bloodstream despite
the *severe* warning we gave them."
Evidently I'd read his subtitles wrong, but I was too forlorn to care.
"It's a great course," Barry continued. "We ride the
superstring from Betelgeuse to Oxymoron. Then we circle the Greater
Megellanic Cloud at the red shift limit, loop Orion's Belt, and finish
at a random event horizon in the Alpha Quadrant. it's terrific fun.
The public is enthusiastic, though most only get radiotelescope reports
and the reception is dreadful. We always get a real warm welcome at
the Seven Sisters."
There wasn't much I could say to that. I looked out at the cold vacuum
of space and shivered. Thought about the race to come. And shivered
I have butterflies in my stomach. Real ones. That's all cook was able
to catch before liftoff from Wiltshire. Fred8urkle99x7lp2 took delight
in pulling their wings from their bodies and giving me significant looks.
Although I'd brought my bike along - a Super Galaxy whose longest previous
journey has been to Hull - it isn't going to be much use in the hostile
environment of space. Fred chucked it out the airlock just before we
left the solar system, and it's now orbiting Pluto. Barry kindly loaned
me a Celestial Bicycle. "I hope it suits," he said before scuttling
away under the stern eyes of captain Bob and the rest of the peloton.
Oddly enough it utilizes the same Reynolds 531 tubing as my Dawes. Steel
is apparently real, even in Alpha Centauri. But there the similarity
The gearing is literally out of this world: with a suitable cadence
you can cruise along just below lightspeed. Then there's the composite
helium wheelset, alloy forks mined from Halley's Comet, and Chris King
Headset ("He's one of us, you know" Barry informed me on the trip out).
it's a dream machine and it's practically weightless, relatively speaking.
The Tour isn't the grueling weeks-long event that it is back home. it's
a one solar day special, pedal-till-you-drop affair. Bicycles are much
more popular in the universe than is commonly supposed by gravity-bound
transportation experts; almost all intelligent extraterrestrials are
besotted by them and ride often for pleasure. Even the Martians - oh
yes, they exist - are velo addicts, commuting across the busy asteroid
belt even while bitching about the traffic. The purpose of the race
is to channel the aggression of the more competitive species, as well
as cull the slowpokes.
Stardate: Monday. Though
how anybody can tell is beyond me. I awake early, full of dread and
yet strangely unhopeful. I've spent the night praying; not that
I'm religious, but you never know who's out there, as I've
learned of late. Barry the friendly alien popped in early this morning
to wish me luck and drop off my modified hydration/respiration pack.
"I hope we got the mixture right," he said. "Fred kept
venting oxygen and winking at me dreadfully, but I kept my eyes on the
dials. I've got my xytrpls crossed for you." He even gave me a
hug, which was not at all pleasant on a variety of levels but which
touched me nonetheless.
Bob grudgingly ferries me out to Betelgeuse, the start point. Competitors
are ranged across the visible spectrum and a few infrared ones: Freeloaders
from the Oort Cloud; Prophylaxians from Syphilis 9: Balloonians from
Janullrich; and many others, including of course my abductors. Barry
waves, but he's so far away I won't see it for another 57 years if I
stick around here. There's a general fluttering of tentacles and other
flexible grasping stalks when the reigning champ - the lanky Luxan from
Texarod - takes his position, shaking off his handlers but still shadowed
by deep space pilot fish instructed to devour him should he slacken
his pace. Now it begins. Given the stakes, everybody has blood in their
eye except for the Octagonal Triumvirate, who prefer White Lightning.
I keep my head down and breath deeply to steady my nerves.
There's a big Bang! as a minor star
cluster (last year's losers, it says in the program notes) suddenly
goes supernova, and we're off. It immediately becomes apparent that
my loaner is a dud: No matter how fast I spin I'm left sucking the vapor
trails, or whatever, of the Slugabugs from planet Muccus - themselves
far from the bookie's favourites. Then I look down and notice that someone
has attached a heavy metal meteorite to my bottom bracket. Fred, no
doubt. I kick it off and immediately pick up speed. Fired by righteous
adrenaline not to mention raw fear, I inch my way forward through the
group, now all massed together more to keep tabs on another than for
any conceivable slipstreaming effect. We race at breakneck speed across
the vastness of empty space, which sadly for the contingent from SUV9
(9 is a popular number with ETs) isn't empty enough as they slam into
a previously uncharted and rather downmarket moon. That's one way to
disqualify yourself, I think grimly, as we swing around the gas giant
Oxymoron and speed towards the Greater Megellanic Cloud.
One would think the Oort Freeloaders would have the advantage here.
One would be wrong. They accidently slip into a wormhole and are deposited
50,000 years into the future inside somebody's blender, making a fine
daiquiri. The rest of us slog through the cloud, uphill all the way,
sweating, swearing, occasionally collapsing with radiation poisoning.
Thanks to a freak ion storm the Luxan evaporates from reigning champ
to acid rain, taking the fish with him before they could even get a
nibble. A very long time later the survivors - that includes me, miraculously
- emerge, sights set on Orion's Belt, the penultimate stage.
I really had no idea this was going to be such a brutal course. By my
reckoning half the competitors have fallen by the wayside, and the rest
are looking decidedly bedraggled. Maybe humankind is tougher than we
think. I flare with pride, and move into position just behind the leaders:
Bob, Fred, and Barry. Well, well, well.
They're a tight-knit squad, despite Barry's liberal tenancies. They're
going to be hard to beat. Even harder since I know that Fred is a cheat
and will take any unfair advantage. I'm half-expecting a pump in the
spokes; hopefully he hasn't seen Breaking Away. We're down to
the final 9 million kilometres. We've left Orion and everyone else behind.
I've always been a little unclear of the rules: I'm in second place,
so will Earth really become a dumping ground for alien rubbish if I
don't break the tape at the finish line? The only way to be sure is
to be first. I owe humankind no less. I owe Hull no less.
Alpha Quadrant, home stretch, is passing in a blur. I'm giving it every
atom of my being, but it's no use. Fred & co. are pulling ahead beyond
all hope. Suddenly it's over: they've won. White noise fills my head.
I stifle a sob. .000785 seconds later the gruppo accidently converges
with a random singularity and I'm winner by elimination. It's a
hollow victory as I watch Barry's image stretch across the event horizon
of the black hole. He takes a very long time waving goodbye.
Plus, March, April & May, 2003
5,000 years old, according to one helpful reader. However, seeing as
I saved Earth, perhaps I may be permitted this small error.