Sam`s Obsession

Sam’s Obsession

It was the week-end and Sam McAuley sat in his rocking chair in front of the big open fire. On the back of an old envelope he jotted notes with the stub of a pencil which he licked from time to time.

Eventually he laid the pencil down and stuck the the notes in his hip pocket. Leaning back into the rocking chair he stretched his gangling arms up towards the smoke-stained ceiling of the old farmhouse. The newspaper slipped off his knees unnoticed as he rocked back and forth deep in thought. After relaxing for a few more minutes Sam reached into his waistcoat pocket pulling out a large pocket-watch. He checked the time, cocked his head listening to the sound of the wind howling through the trees that surrounded the old farm. A bachelor, now on the wrong side of fifty, he had worked the farm with his older brother Joe since their father’s death. However that all changed after Joe died suddenly from a heart attack. Sam seemed to lose interest in the business of the farm and began to let things go. Most of the cattle had been sold off and the few that remained were only sufficient to supply his meagre needs. The fields where, in earlier times, corn, barley and potatoes grew in abundance now lay fallow. Sam had developed other interests. Leaning down, Sam knocked out his pipe against the stone hearth, put it into his pocket and threw a couple of logs onto the guttering embers of the fire. As a shower of sparks danced up the chimney he gazed for a few seconds into their shimmering depths and his eyes took on a look of unusual intensity.

Sam got up and turned to the big crude wooden table littered with the remnants of his breakfast and dinner. He lifted the plates, leaned across the table and, with his sleeve, swept the crumbs onto the rough tiled floor. He carried the plates out to the small crude scullery where they joined those already piled in the sink. Returning to the living room, Sam knelt down in front of the fireplace, removed one of the stone slabs which formed the hearth and withdrew some banknotes from the cavity revealed beneath.

Fumbling through the notes with awkward fingers he nodded and tucked them into his hip pocket. He rose stiffly, crossed the room and pulled back the frayed lace curtains squinting out into the darkness beyond. Sam stood for a moment listening to the sound of the storm lashing the old farmhouse.

Turning quickly he headed towards the small scullery. There he reached up, opened a cupboard and lifted down a half bottle of brandy. After taking a generous slug he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Then, with a shake of his head and a shudder, he screwed the cap on again, replaced the bottle and headed for his bedroom. He emerged a few minutes later clad in a heavy oilskin cape, a moth-eaten balaclava and headed for the front door. There, he reached up and lifted a set of bicycle clips off a peg on the back of the door. As he opened the latch and pushed the door outwards an unexpected blast of wind caught it and slammed it back against his knees. He rubbed them, swore and, putting his shoulder to the door again he forced his way out into the gale. A loose corrugated tin sheet covering a hole on the barn roof was banging loudly. Sam made a mental note to hammer a few nails into it one of these days.

He lowered his head and fought his way across the yard to the barn where he kept his bicycle. As he gained the shelter of the barn and the door closed he paused to regain his breath. As he pulled the door behind him the sound of the storm was utterly blotted out. At this point most men would have said `enough` and returned to the brandy bottle - Not Sam McAuley. He lifted down a battery lamp, slid it on to the bracket on the front of the bicycle and switched it on. Even this dim light was enough to silhouette the items of rusting farm equipment that lay scattered all around, just where they had expired. Sam wheeled the bicycle down the lane through the ruts and potholes until he came to the road leading to the town.

The first icy drops of sleet began almost immediately and lashed his face like gravel, driven by the howling east wind. The old bike was heavy at the best of times but in these conditions it felt as if the

frame was made of lead. His oilskins acted like a sail and every yard gained was a grim battle against the elements. Nothing short of a full-blown tornado would have prevented him from gaining his objective – to reach the town. Freezing cold and soaked he kept pushing down on the pedals, driven by his overwhelming sense of purpose. The gale showed no sign of abating but it was matched in its power and intensity by Sam’s dogged determination. A glow in the sky overhead told Sam that he was almost within sight of the town.

This realization gave added impetus to his unfeeling limbs. A few punishing minutes later he gained the crest above the town and saw the lights stretched out below him like the promised land. The last half-mile was all downhill and the storm had finally abated. Sam paused there and pulled out his pocket watch. In the reflected glow from the lights he saw that his arduous journey had taken longer than he had anticipated. Determinedly he set off again mustering what little energy as he had left.

As he reached the edge of town the adrenaline began to flow. His struggle against the elements for the past hour seemed to recede in his mind compared to this feeling of being truly alive which permeated his whole being. He weaved his way through the narrow cobbled streets until, with bated breath, he arrived

at his destination. As he dismounted from the bicycle his legs almost gave way from the numbness and effort he had expended. He leaned against the wall for a second to recover but there was no time to spare. With frozen, unfeeling fingers he peeled off his oilskins, balaclava and bicycle clips, switched off the lamp, he quickly rolled them up and jammed the lot into his saddle-bag. Bending down stiffly he massaged some circulation back into his almost lifeless legs and stumbled unsteadily towards the entrance.

He had made it! With a rising sense of exhilaration he pushed his way through the turnstile then paused, dazzled momentarily by the contrast of the bright stadium lights and thrilled by the sight of the dogs being led to the starting gate for the first race of the evening.