Sex stories, incest, mom and son, Son takes mum’s old bike out of storage… My mountain bike was upside down and in pieces round the back of the house and I was bent over it, my arms streaked with oil, making some odd adjustment or other when my mum breezed past me. I closed my eyes and waited for that delicious scent which I knew would inevitably follow in her wake, and…mmm, there it was. Don’t ask me to name it, you don’t give names to things which defy description. She held a basket of washing to her hip before putting it down onto the grass to prepare it for hanging.
“Mum, we’ve got this thing called a spin dryer for that. Why are you giving yourself more work?”
“Eddie, if you’d look up from that (I know she wanted to say ‘bloody’…) bike of yours, you’ll see what a glorious day it is. Believe me, there’s nothing more satisfying than the smell of fresh washing drying out in the sun.”
I smiled and thought back onto that scent I’d just experienced as she’d passed by, but thought it wiser not to mention it.
“D’you need some help?”
“What?!? Look at you, you’re filthy, I’d have to start all over again!”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll be out of your hair in a bit though, I’m going to take the bike for a spin later and make sure there’ll be no last problems.”
That’s what I was doing. Myself and a couple of mates, we’d decided we wanted to do an epic bike ride after Uni. The original plan had obviously been to get into the Guinness Book of Records by trying something like biking the whole length of the American coastline, North AND South, but had rapidly adjusted our plans to a leisurely tour of Europe. We were all enthousiastic, but we knew we weren’t athletes. So to prepare, we thought we’d do Wales over two or three days during the next week.
Mum was standing there in a dream.
She said, “You remember when your dad and I used to take the gang of you kids out on the train with our bikes to Hayfield and we’d ride around in the countryside and have a picnic and all the sheep would decide they wanted to share in the sandwiches as well?”
She was giggling, my mum, just like a little girl.
Of course I remembered it. My dad had taken photos of mum, in her sleeveless thin summer dress, trying to shoo away the sheep by wafting the bottom of her dress at them. We and the sheep thought this was kind of hilarious so she’d decided to up the ante and chase after them, only to come a cropper by tripping over a branch. Dad, in his infinite wisdom, had decided to preserve the moment for posterity by taking another picture before rushing over to help her up. What a picture. He couldn’t have taken a better one if he’d posed her a thousand times over. The look of surprise in her eyes, her hand raised to push back the hair that had come loose over her face, the dress up around her thighs, showing just a glimpse of the white panties we knew she was wearing anyway (that summer dress had been very thin…) and that gorgeous expanse of leg….. I knew the picture by heart, and if for some reason I’d want reminding, I could always look at it again because after dad had died and mum and I had spent an evening going through heaps of old pics and feeling sentimental, we’d come across it.
“Mum, why isn’t this one in the album?” I smiled, holding it up to show her. She’d made a grab for it, laughing, and I of course, had snatched my hand away at the last moment.
“Mmmm, now let’s see, I remember this. Weren’t you in a sheep-shearing contest or something?”
“No, I was trying to swim to Hayfield but the grass was too tall, now gimme that…” And with that she snatched it away, smiled at it once more and replaced it in the heap. Of course it should go without saying that I later returned to the stash, took out the picture and scanned it into my computer before returning it. I really did want to have it as the background on my desktop, but instead, printed off an enlarged copy which I later hung together with the rearview of a lady playing tennis, with no knickers, on my dormroom wall.
Many of my friends were impressed and very interested in who this ‘cougar’ was. So I took it down because I realised that one day mum might actually come for a visit and my mates would think I’d got the hots for my mum. It wasn’t that. At least I don’t think it was that. Oh no, I hoped it wasn’t that. Was it that?
I think she’d forgotten she was supposed to be hanging the washing, because she remained standing there, lost in thought, rooted to the spot, a cream pillowslip in her hands.
“Mum, I’ve just had a great thought. We’ve still got your old bike in the shed. Let me do it up for you and we can go for a ride together?”
She looked up, her train of thought broken.
“What? What!? You kidding? I’ve not been on a bike for years..”
“But you don’t forget mum, it’s like, umm, riding a bike… Look, I’ll tell you what, let’s have a look at it, give it the once-over, and if it’s in any nick I’ll fix it up, you can give it a run round the block and, I know! Tomorrow – tomorrow we’ll go out to Hayfield like we used to, take a few sandwiches and we’ll make a day of it…”
Without waiting for an answer I strode off towards the shed where mum’s bicycle might be. I say ‘might’ because over time we’d piled all those things like old chairs and appliances, especially after dad had passed away, into the back, and now I was confronted with a huge mound of – well, junk. But there at the bottom I could just make out part of a wheel. Hopefully the rest of the bicycle was there too, and after half an hour of moving stuff around I found that, indeed, it was.
It was the perfect lady’s bicycle – mudguards, no crossbar, handlebars that bent round towards you, with a bell, and a basket for carrying shopping – and flat tyres…..
“See, it’s no good, the tyres are perished. And anyway, didn’t it used to be red?”
It was now a deep pink, the colour having faded somewhat, but….
“Leave it to me, it’s no problem, it’s Eddie to the rescue!”
And with that I whipped the bike onto its back and got to work. There really wasn’t much wrong that a few squirts of WD40 wouldn’t solve, and I went over to the bicycle shop in town and replaced the tyres and inner-tubes with brand new ones.
“Dadah..!”
“Oh, I dunno, I…”
“On you get.”
“Maybe I need training wheels…”
“I’m holding it steady, on you get.”
With a comical grimace she took hold of the handlebars and stood astride the bike.
“I’m holding it, now up you…”
Before I’d finished, she plonked herself onto the saddle – well, more accurately, onto my hand holding the saddle…. Her bum was warm and soft on my hand, and I felt her cheeks press down on me alternately as she began, slowly at first, to pedal. If she felt my hand there, she didn’t mention it.
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