The car raced around the corner, its occupants cheering. Behind them, a cyclist skidded to a halt, dismounted and threw his bike to the ground. A moment later, he was on his knees, head tilted back, arms raised as though in triumph, with a face that told the opposite story.

“The little bastards,” he cried to noone in particular. “The little, sodding, bastards.”

As the tail lights of the car became ever smaller, the road was lit by nothing other than the wimpish bicycle lights, muted by the grass they were nestling in. The cyclist’s rage turned to self-pity and he slumped back on his heels. The front wheel of his bicycle had been turning since the time when it left the road and was coming to a standstill, the result of poorly oiled bearings on a bike he couldn’t afford to maintain properly.

People were so cruel to him. This wasn’t the random behaviour of random people. In this village, everyone knew who he was. That made it all the more personal. That made it hurt all the more.

Reaching down, he turned off the bike lights. He couldn’t afford new batteries very often and he wasn’t going to be going any further tonight.