Riders on the storm

by Claudia Comyn (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Denmark

For all of us, there comes or will come a moment when we actually contemplate death for the first time. On the last night in August, lightning advanced slowly, jolting and menacing as a villain in a silent film, along the perfectly level horizon. The bright shapes in the sky hadn’t quite faded from my retinas before the next ones formed. I felt the first slap of a fat raindrop on my bottom lip. My addled, hungover mind was not ready for this. The cold raindrops hitting my skin penetrated my warm, calm stupor. Another clap of thunder and an urgency sprang into my body, awakening my sluggish senses. My knuckles gripped the handlebars tighter with every progressively large sound, my nails dug into my palms and tears prickled behind my eyes. I pedalled harder. I panic. I try to gather my thoughts but every loud crash sends them scattering in all directions. Is it safe to cycle in a storm? What if I can’t remember my exact route? Moronic questions mingle with the important ones: would my head catch fire if I was hit by lightning? Would I get some kind of interesting injury, like loss of smell or sight? Would I be totally unrecognisable from burns? I jump off my bike and wrestle my smartphone out of my damp pocket. Crouching next to my bicycle, I furiously google how to survive a thunderstorm. My fingers are damp and the screen is difficult to use. In the blue synthetic light, I see the unforgiving words: never ride a bike. Well. Shit. I take a look around myself and blink a few times. What if this is it? What a fittingly stupid death for someone like myself. How absolutely typical. Bumped off by an act of God only five days into my Erasmus exchange. On some golf course in Denmark. Nothing left of me but a scorch mark. I wonder how long it would take for anyone to find my charred, grisly remains. The thought is so grim and bizarre I almost want to laugh. “Do you need help?” There comes a low, calm voice behind me. Weeping for my life, and lost in a tangle of apocalyptic thoughts, I turn around. A tall young Dane is standing above me next to his bike. He has pulled one airpod out of his ear and is looking at me as one looks at an old man who has wandered out of a care home. “I’m just really frightened of the thunder.” I cringe at the pathetic sound of my own voice. “I-- I don’t know if I should leave my bike behind.” The young Dane shakes his head. “Don’t be frightened. There are still a few seconds between the lightning and the thunder, so it’s not here yet. And don’t leave your bike,” he says, raising one eyebrow, “because that is going to get you home. You still have time, but you need to go now. Do you know where you’re going?” I turn to see the lights of the Bella Centre twinkling in the distance. I can find my way back from there. “Yes.” “Take deep breaths, and then hop on your bike and press on. It’s going to be okay.” With a brief word of thanks, I heave my body over the frame of my bicycle and do as he says. He watches me ride away. The Bella Centre drifts into focus, its angular form and blinking lights guiding me like stars through the noise and chaos. I reach the bike yard of my kollegium, fumblingly lock my bike, and take the long, trundling elevator ride up to my apartment. I am shaking. I put the key in the door of my apartment, shut my bedroom door and collapse onto my bed, still in my wet things. I am still shaking. I eventually close my eyes. BANG. An earthshattering sound. It feels as though the glass in the windows will break. My eyes fly open, and I realise that something directly outside, maybe a crane or a tree, has been struck by lightning. I lie back once more, and, chuckling softly to myself, settle down into an eleven-hour sleep.