MOON BABES OF BICYCLE CITY

NOVEL

MIKE DAILY

1

NEW MEXICO, 2019

South of Roswell, north of Hope, east of an Apache reservation, west of Dexter and Lake Arthur lies Bicycle City, New Mexico.

Oh.

Morning.

Mid-October.

Bangin’ Elbows Road.

Rodderick Moon and Mick O'Grady are “flat-out haulin' bazoonies” in Rodd’s bikecar replica of a '76 Chrysler Cordoba.

Two sets of Cook cranks instead of a motor.

Skyway Tuff Wheels with stadium tires courtesy of Tioga.

Rodd says the body is made of recycled aluminum cans of Jolt Cola.

He sips day-glo soda.

Rodd returns the Rad Cup-coozy'd bottle to the ACS Rotor beverage holder.

Taped to the dashboard is a flyer for Miami Hopper yoga.

Rodd's wardrobe is composed of collectible clothing: Life's a Beach skull and crossbones cap and sneakers, Bad Otis Link sleeveless, thrift store shorts, Vision hip pack and socks, Swatches.

He says he has a watch to keep track of each of his daughters: Suzue, Araya, and Ukai Moon.

They’re in three different time zones.

Their mom’s home.

She’ll be headin’ off to work soon.

“What’s her name?” Mick asks.

“Chatauqua. Chatauqua Moon. Everyone calls her Chat. Except a total poser on a Milwaukee Bruiser ‘trick track’ who calls her The Cougar on the Jag.”

“Your wife has a Jag?”

Rodd nods.

“Team Jag. Keep pedalin’ like Lee Medlin. This ain’t a sidehack!”

“Thank you Gary Littlejohn,” Mick says.

He’s yawning for oxygen.

Rodd laughs.

Odor of manure in the air from the creameries.

Piñon smoke from a chimney.

Reminds Mick of PA.

And Lock Haven University.

He's wearing a P.O.S shirt, jeans, vegan belt with a Def Jux buckle, Nike DOOM Dunks with Aesop Rock laces.

Sun is blazing.

They're out of coconut water and Gatorade.

Can he slake his thirst at the next emergency eye wash station?

The Schwinn Scrambler breakfast plates and Muscle Power shakes they had at Starting Gate Café burned off long ago.

Mick doesn't recall signing up for all this cardio.

His eyes were bigger than his thighs, he guesses.

Session, he sees.

Jam circle outside an arcade.

Guy on a chrome Ozone megaspins to a McApplecrate and waves.

“Bananas,” Mick says.

He breaks one off, hands it to Rodd.

“Thank you, O’Grady.”

“You’re welcome. So what does it take to become a ‘Moon Babe’ of Bicycle City? Wait. Don’t tell me. Big hair?”

“Massive air,” Rodd says.

“’Hair’, I said.”

“Moon Babes is a bike club like any other. You have to be asked to join. Chosen.”

“I thought that was gangs,” Mick says. “And the mob.”

They pass the jam circle.

Rodd looks at him.

“Bike club.”