My name is Kevin. I was 16 when I died.

I loved cycling. When I cycled, I felt at peace with the world and all its many afflictions. I
loved when the free wind seethed through my hair. The gusts of air rhythmed with my gasps
for breath like a synchronised dance choreographed by the heart. I loved how it brought me
to places faster. Cycling gave my legs a chance to go beyond their basic limits of speed by
giving them friends, a pedal, and wheels. But most of all, I loved cycling because the bike
was the closest thing I had to a car.

Cars were my favourite. But my interest was more particular than general. I specifically liked
classic cars. My interest in them started when my father brought home a box of old toy cars
from a garage sale downtown. I'd rather have called them figurines, though. I had the
figurines neatly displayed on my dresser; they’re probably still there, collecting dust. My
collection consisted of my Chevrolet Corvette, Ferrari 250 GTO, BMW 3.0 CSL, Shelby
GT350, and my favourite of all, a yellow Austin-Healey 3000.

The Austin-Healey 3000 was one of the few fascinations my father and I had the chance to
share. It was the final version of the "Big Healey," and with a powerful six-cylinder engine
and overdrive, it could easily cruise at 75 mph. But what we were most fascinated by was
the motion of the car; it rode smoothly and satisfactorily with its big and intimidating wheels.

In the summer of 1987, my father’s old colleague Frank Douglas, an associate at Lake
Arrowhead’s practically derelict firm, informed us of the upcoming showing of the new
Porsche 959 in Los Angeles. The car was the talk of what was Lake Arrowhead’s esoteric
car society, which embarrassingly comprised only 4 people: my father, my friend Jacob
(whose father was a mechanic), his father (the mechanic), and me. This divulgence was an
aggravation to my father’s and my vehement countenance; we locked eyes, and it felt as if a
litany of intangible waves surged from one brain to another like telepathy. Our shared
perspicacity of showings led to the postulation that this would be a gathering of sybaritic car
owners and their classic cars. We were going to be there.

Unfortunately, Jacob and his father were caught up in a vacation, which thwarted them from
joining us; my father and I prepared the truck and began the long journey to the city of stars
by ourselves. After our strenuous but bonding drive that accidentally took a circuitous route,
my father and I observed a congregation of eclectic automobiles with number plates of
different colours in the parking lot. But even when affected by the truck’s slant of equilibrium
from turning into a spot, my sight stayed fixated on a car with a big hood, eye-catching
wheels, and a sophisticated interior. Its colour resembled one of a canary’s, its doors
resembled the bird’s pinions, and the front was ornamented with a number plate from the big
city of New York. "The Austin-Healey 3000..." I managed to inarticulately express

I jumped out of the truck and gesticulated to my father about the presence of the car. As we
fervently vetted the structure of the automobile, a euphonic voice that resembled one of an
idyllic landscape spoke out from behind us.

"It’s beautiful, isn’t it?" The voice spoke. We turned around and were greeted by the view of
a young woman, her eyes doe-like and her lips like a cupid's bow. She was dressed in
lavender perfume and an eye-sore of a lavender dress, which seemed to be made with
coruscating plumage in mind but a jutting truss in execution.

Before my father and I could agree, she introduced herself.

"My name is Jane, Jane Leen. I’m glad to see my car has earned your notice," she said.

I noticed mercurial introversion accumulate on my father’s face. I felt rather repulsed but
understanding. My mother left us for a security officer who worked at The Dune Hotel and
Casino in Las Vegas. She became infatuated with him during her anniversary trip with my
father. It hurt my father very badly. He started generalising every woman in his vicinity as
perfidious, and it was quite insufferable. But with Jane, I saw a slight resurgence of light. I
hoped she would restore him to some jubilation.

"It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Leen. My name is Lucas Darwin, and this is my son, Kevin." My
father said

"It’s Ms. just for your information, but you can call me Jane," she laughed.

Well, if that’s so, regard me as Lucas. Your car’s been quite the prattle for us."

I watched as they communicated with the involvement of adult jargon, which appeared as
endless blather.
Eventually (within approximately 5 minutes), my father informed me that he would be joining
Jane inside the large suspended white tents, where silver trays of champagne and caviar on
tarts were observed to be carried by servers with tailcoats and dotted socks.

I wandered around the parking lot for as long as it took. I watched as more cars were
ensconced by valet parkers. I appreciated the way wheels upheld the sole function of a car,
providing motion more conveniently and more quickly. It reminded me of my bicycle. My
heart became satiated with a surplus of comfort and peace.

Amid introspection, a cacophony of distraught cries and dress shoes clattering across the
venue’s wooden floorboard permeated and imbued the atmosphere of what was initially
dominated by a Ray Charles song.

A fearful apprehension engulfed me. It was my father.

"Somebody call an ambulance!" I heard Jane scream.

At that moment, I felt at a loss for grappling with my reality yet potent emotions more than
what I believed a human mind can comprehend and a heart can withstand, capriciously
pulverising my earlier engulfment of peace.

There it was; I saw it. Amongst the unimpeded spate of running tenue de ville attire, a
conspicuous view of my father convulsing on the floor could be seen. My body felt inanimate
as if sustaining a loss of motion, unlike the cars around me and my bicycle, which I fondly
thought of not a mere 15 seconds ago. It felt like a nefarious force was holding me down,
never to regain motion autonomy again.

Then it happened.

My father swung his hand against his chest. His forehead was perspiring, his intercostal
muscles were contracting but not in respiration, and he was ravenous for support.

Suddenly, my feet regained motion. The force shattered, and I ran towards the lying body of
my father.
We locked eyes, and identical to a few days before, it felt as though intangible waves surged
between our brains, like telepathy. I received his message. "Do not worry" was what he
conveyed.

Suddenly, the surge stopped. I was still looking into his eyes, but he wasn’t looking into
mine. My father was dead.

A few years passed since the incident, and I was still in desolation, with an indisposition to
exert, change, or move.

I was living with Jacob and his family as I had no other relatives, and his father figured it
would be too harsh to put me into the foster system as I seemed too debilitated to be absent
from familiar support.

"Kevin, we’re all eating dinner on the couch. Why don’t you come and catch some television
with us?" Jacob’s mom asked. I looked over and saw the desperate faces of Jacob and his
family. They were good people, eager to help. I figured I should join them, as they’ve
maintained sanguinity and took me in with care, even though I knew this wasn’t easy for
them either. I felt regret for having filled their quaint suburban home with a state of pensive
melancholy.

I picked up my tray and walked towards the dusty, floral settee they owned. They were
watching a game show; I don’t remember what, but it was time for the intervals.

"Are you interested in cars? Perhaps an automobile geek? Come on down to Los Angeles as
we showcase the original Porsche 959, just like in the classic 1980s. Same place, same
time. What are you waiting for?" The voice of a famous retired news anchor, Jamie
Fulleman, played out through the neon luminescence of the television pixels.

I denied thinking about that day and repressed it deep within the bounds of my heart. Yet,
the aggravating voice of Mr. Fulleman salvaged what could’ve taken a whole unit of
excavation experts to deliberately recover. I dropped my tray of food and ran out of the
house. I could hear Jacob’s father yelling after me, but my ears were too clogged to gather
what was said.

I grabbed my bicycle and pedalled faster than ever. But instead of the peace and liberty I felt
before, cycling was agonising. The gusts of wind were an obstacle to defeat, and the gasps
of breath were a wheeze of anger.

I found myself enervated, and on the same circuitous route, my father and I took to the
showing. I didn't know why I was cycling there or why there was no halt in the motion of my
legs. My legs, the pedals, and the wheels were working against me. The same nefarious
force was back, but this time, instead of halting all motion, it provided it incessantly.

The same tents were emerging into sight, and the same cars were ensconced in each
parking spot just like before. It was that day all over again. I felt the same loss of ability to
grapple with my reality and the same emotions others wouldn’t believe a human mind could
comprehend or a heart could withstand. My legs stopped. The force shattered.

Before I knew it, the sight of the tents was replaced with the sight of the clouds, the blue,
peaceful sky, and the tips of oak trees and faraway sycamores.

Then the sight was vague. My brain felt pierced, sharp, and regained feeling, but more
meagre in its ability to grapple with what was happening. I started to feel cold and
experienced a diversion from my thoughts. My head dropped to the side, and I saw it: the
chain and cassette of my bicycle were detached, the wheel still in motion. I blinked slowly as
I watched the spinning lose its motion. The last thing I saw was the New York number plate
attached to what seemed like a canary-coloured cyclorama.

My eyes closed.