Ftrain, by Paul Ford

The bike is free of wobbles.

Close to Coney Island there came a brief but mighty storm. I went beneath an auto shop's awning. So did an older man. He narrated and I took pictures.

"Look at that," he said.

"Five minutes," he said.

I liked having him there. Two wandering apes sharing a cave. We've been here forever. Outside the shelter: wild cars splashing, squealing, braking too late; denying the rain.

Then sun, and fifty-story clouds.

After ten miles I didn't want to pedal home so, navigating by the sight of the parachute drop, I found Neptune Avenue and then the train station. I meant to go see the ocean but it was too crowded.