The moonless night is dark—oppressively so—and the beam of light emitting from the front of my bike does little to dispel it.

It’s okay. I know these roads, I’ve ridden them every day for a year, through sweltering heat, torrential rain, lethally slick ice, and impenetrable fog. During the day, the dusk, and the night.

Never has it felt like this. Something is behind me, catching me slowly. I can’t hear it, and a look over my shoulder only reveals a pitch-black void. Yet  somehow I can feel its presence.

My heart thumps wildly in my chest, and I push the pedals harder as I climb the hill, increasing my speed, until my lungs burn with the freezing air. But it keeps getting closer.

Finally, I crest the hill, my arms shaking with the effort, and a metallic taste in the back of my mouth, but I can’t stop. I shift the gears, up and up and up, until I’m hurtling down the hill, the cold biting at my cheeks, and yet it still gets closer.

I know these roads. I know every bend, every kink, every rise and fall. I know every bump and dip. Except—

Time seems to slow. The constant freezing and thawing means potholes can form at any time, and the patching never really lasts. This one formed today. It’s not huge, but it’s big enough.

I have a decision to make.

If I swerve, I’ll come off.

If I slow, I’ll be caught.

If I stay my course, it might not be so bad, just a violent jar through my wrists and saddle.

Or it might send me over my handlebars.

I steel my nerves, loosen my elbows, and lift my backside a few inches from my saddle, and countdown to the impact.

Three…Two…