the famous semi-plagarized by William Gibson fiction piece!

Man Over Marin

by Steve

The sky was blue and the crisp dry air was biting at his face as he pedalled along Folsom. The stiff side wind was tugging at, his wheels, so Ed's attention was divided between chewing on his special power mixture and keeping his bike in the lane.

The weekend before Ed had pounded No-Doz, speed, bee-pollen, and ginseng root into a fist- sized lump, which he had then soaked for the rest of the week in a bowl of Jolt Cola and tea bags. This was what he was gnawing on as he rode, choking it down with gulps of sickly sweet espresso squirted from his water bottle.

The weather was perfect. The wind was blowing hard, the sky was clear, and the pavement was dry.
So far everything is going according to plan, Ed was thinking, I might just be able to pull it off.
He took a left on Sixth Street and started pedalling hard. With the wind at his back he flew through the red lights at Howard and Mission, got a green at Market, and after bunny-hopping both sets of tracks and landing in a hard lean, found himself headed toward Nob Hill on Taylor.
OK, one last swig of espresso, and time to jettison the water bottle.

The power mixture was kicking in hard. Ed's legs were pumping like pistons. The wind was pushing him, and the sky was beckoning. The hill was approaching and he knew he was ready.

Rather than shifting down, as he usually would have, he bent over a lifted the chain up onto a new chainring he had ordered through the mail. It was way too large for the derailleur; it barely fit on his frame without rubbing the chainstay. Sixty-eight teeth seized the chain and his hammering slowed to a steady spin.

Shit, not fast enough. I'm almost at the damn hill.

Ed stood up and started pounding. He was on the hill now, but losing speed. He tried visualizing a muni bus right behind him, snorting down his neck. That helped, but it wasn't enough. He focused on the spirit of Evel Knievel. He was no longer on a bicycle. He was a screaming, bellowing, gaining speed up the hill. It was just in time, the crest was up ahead. His lungs were melting and his veins pulsed with lactic acid when he reached the top; he pulled up hard on the handlebars and shot into the air. He was aloft.

Nob Hill receded behind him, shrinking into the city. Ed was soaring out over the bay riding the wing and still pedalling hard.

AaaaaaaaaaaH! I did it! I'm flying!

He looked back over his shoulder for a quick glance at the city, then fixed his eyes straight ahead and kept pedalling he wanted to get as high and far as possible before he had to start looking for a place to land.