More problems for Cathy.

Easy As Falling Off A Bike.
by Angharad & Bonzi.
part 93.

Despite being asleep much of the morning, I was in bed early. The note had spooked me a little and I used my improvised door bar to help make me feel secure. I kept reminding myself that it was okay to feel a bit girly now, but to remember that dealing with a gender change also required me to be tough enough to survive it.

I was relatively lucky, I actually looked and sounded the part and the hormones were changing my body shape enough to get away with things even in skimpy clothes. Maybe I was very lucky, I used that positive feeling to help me get off to sleep, rather than dwelling on how I was going to tell Simon.

I woke up in a sweat, the dream I'd had was horrible and the memory was still vivid. I'd been at a wedding, actually my wedding. I was wearing a beautiful white dress and Simon looked really good in his suit. My dad was there to give me away looking pleased with himself, when the proceedings were interrupted by someone calling from the back of the church.

The voice was indeterminate of sex, and I couldn't identify who it was. But they shouted that they, "Had just cause to stop the ceremony. The priest was marrying two men, one of whom was a queer who dressed in womens' clothes." Uproar occurred amongst the congregation, and I looked at Simon who had an expression of horror on his face.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he shouted to me.

"I tried," I called back breaking down into tears.

"Not hard enough, sorry it's over." He began to walk away and I collapsed on the floor sobbing. Everyone seemed to be walking away in disgust or shock, even my father. I was left a weeping ball of expensive, white lace and silk.

I was whimpering to myself when I awoke and my pillow and nightdress were wet with my tears. It showed me I had to tell Simon at the first opportunity. I needed to deal with this secret and then the consequences.

I got up and made myself a cup of tea to calm me down. It was nearly three in the morning. I tried to identify the voice in my dream, but it felt like it was a combination of many or even my own trying to make me face up to the problem.

I had wondered if it was the same miscreant who written the note, that certainly wasn't my imagination, it was there on the table in front of me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to know who wrote it, because I didn't want any nasty scenes with them, they would only draw attention to myself.

If there were any more, I decided I would put a hidden camera in the hallway to record anyone putting stuff in my letterbox. I could borrow one from the lab, in fact I possibly had one. We use them to record activity of dormice, owls and various other species, with a motion sensor like you get on alarms and those irritating high intensity lights, outside houses, the ones that get set off by foxes and cats but not humans because they're set too low.

I went to my rucksack, the one I used for my fieldwork. Sure enough, there was one in the bottom. These things are so small it's amazing and because they transmit rather than record themselves, the batteries are small too. Just tune in the receiver, in this case my spare lappie, and off you go.

I decided I would set it up anyway, but only play the recording if anything else was left in my box. I threw on some jeans and a jumper and nipped down to the hallway. Looking around I realised it wouldn't be easy to suspend it without something showing. Then I saw the perfect place.

There are nine boxes, in three ranks of three. The top rank were for the floor above mine, the bottom for the ground floor rooms. I knew the box above mine was unused. It had been forced some time before and the current occupier of that room had his mail sent elsewhere.

The bend in the edge of the door was just enough for me to position the camera transmitter in the box and close the door on it. I could see it because I knew it was there, it was unlikely anyone else would.

The batteries would last about three days on motion stimulated, at least they did in the field. They were rechargeables and I had plenty of them. I'd also become very good at setting them up quickly and accurately. Working with nervous, little, furry things encourages that sort of skill, or you would never see anything.

I went back to my room and set up the receiver, it took about twenty minutes, plugged into a USB socket. I made some more tea and after consuming it went back to bed. I awoke at eight, showered and dressed and got ready for going back to Bristol. If Simon was expecting to see me, he should have phoned or texted. Besides if I scarpered, I wouldn't have to tell him for another day. At nine in the morning without much sleep or any breakfast except more tea, it made some sense. So I went for it.

On the way into Portsmouth, I passed a car boot sale. Having nothing better to do, I stopped and to my delight bought a bike rack for a tenner. The guy I bought it from actually came and fitted it to my car while his wife or girlfriend watched his stall. I just acted all girly and he was putty. It meant I could take my bike with me. I rushed back to my room.

I checked the mail box, don't ask me why because on a sunday there isn't a delivery anyway, and I suspected I was probably the only thing stirring in student accommodation. It was empty as I'd expected.

Half an hour later I was on my way, my cycle kit stowed on the floor of the car behind my seat, and my bike held on the rack with various bungee cords. I looked forward to being able to ride at home, although I wasn't going to use the Saunier Duval kit, I'd use my second outfit, of Team GB, a red, white and blue design partly in the form of the Union flag. I'd never be good enough to ride for them officially and my gender state would cause a few problems if I did, but it was good enough for zipping around the highways and byeways of the Bristol area or 'ariel' as the locals said, they add an 'L' to the end of any words ending in a vowel sound, Bristol coming from the Bridge over the River Stowe.

The extra tea I'd drunk meant I needed to make a pit stop which I did at the motorway services. While I was at it, I decided to have a late breakfast, just some eggs on toast but they were actually quite good for a M'way service meal. I walked back towards my car feeling happier and refreshed until I recognised something was wrong.

I began to run and it was true, my bike wasn't to be seen. The rack was still there and some of the bungees, but the bike, my pride and joy had gone. I ran up and down but there was nothing to be seen anywhere. I asked one or two people I could see in their cars or vans and no one had seen anything. In tears, I called the police.

The two officers who came were actually very nice but they didn't offer much hope of finding it or catching the thieves. I wandered around feeling sick and as if it was a dream and I'd wake up any moment. But it wasn't, it was real and I would have to contact my insurance company tomorrow. It was insured for theft but whether that covered on a car rack was another matter. It was locked and I had the serial number on the frame - back in my room, in Portsmouth.

I drove home in a state of semi-shock, I don't actually recall anything after the police went off. I did manage to get an incident report number, but other than that, I was in some sort of trance.

It was three in the afternoon and I made myself some tea and changed into something tidy to see my dad. I bought him some buns from the bakery at Asda but I knew he'd know I didn't make them. I didn't bother with makeup I was too fed up.

I sat down by my dad after kissing his cheek. I gave him one of the buns and he ate it but told me I'd bought it. I promised to bake him some more tomorrow.

"Wha...s'wron'..C.a.ff.y?"

"Nothing Daddy, I'm just tired."

"Yyyes vere is."

"Okay, there is. My bike got stolen off the back of my car while I stopped at the motorway services."

We talked about the incident and I explained he'd never seen this bike, which I'd bought with my student loan money. He couldn't believe that any bike could cost over three thousand pounds, nor could he believe that I wasn't a bad rider. I told him about the inter college race I'd taken part in. His eyes actually sparkled when I told him I'd beaten some regular team riders. For the first time in my life my old man was proud of me. I felt tears in my eyes and we held hands, nothing was said but we each understood the other for perhaps the first time ever.

I could never meet his expectations at football or rugby or any of the team sports he wanted me to try. I was either too small or feeble for their needs. Okay, I'd ridden a bike since I was a kid and was fairly nippy on it, once or twice my speed had saved me from a hiding by bigger boys. My dad had shown me how to maintain it, about the only thing we'd bonded over, but it was short lived. I didn't want to do sports, even cycling. At that time it was means of transport I could take on a train. Racing came later when I was in uni, the first time. I didn't race then, but I began to watch those who did and I wanted to have a go.

I was still seen as a wimp even at Sussex, but I bought a cheap road style bike from another student, an old Peugeot and I began trying to train to possibly have a go myself. I was rubbish and the bike wasn't much better, but it gave me a certain level of fitness which I needed to make a new bike a viable idea. I bought a new Trek but didn't like it. Lancey boy might but I didn't. I sold that and went for the Scott when I got my student loan through. It was a sacrifice and it meant that I didn't have many new clothes or eat too well for a term. It was also a reason why Cathy didn't have much in the wardrobe, I didn't have the cash.

When it was time to go, I told my dad I'd talk to the insurance company and see what happened but they might get funny. He, bless him, offered to give me a thousand towards a new one. That choked me up and I was in tears when I kissed him goodbye and went off to my car.