Tar Road

Thin rubber wheel of the bicycle rolls smoothly over the dark surface, digging in gently, gripping the black porous dried tar. Still fresh from being laid, the earthy chemicals waft up on the wavering heat of the day. Walking barefoot is like cooking feet in a cast iron pan. Smooth to the eye, but when close up, laying hands on the bitumen is rough and sticky and hot. I remember riding my bicycle with milk crate filled to the brim with newspapers, making the mistake of pressing the front brake handle too hard, flipping forward over the handlebars and conking my head down on the tar. Dirty and grazed, I pulled myself to my feet and got back on the bike again. There was no one around and nothing else to do. Work had to be done. The wide and busy street has a constant noise of the sea of vehicles, broken every so often by buses or trucks. Here, where the street is narrow and one way only, all you can hear is the intermittent woosh of a car swinging by.