The story so far:
Swerving leftwards, his sense of balance threw into agitation. He was jimmying the handlebars and trying out giddy shifts of his weight. A nebulous sphere projected bushes and trunks, bushes and trunks shaken over with sifting illumination. Ditching from the bike or ditching with the bike demanded itself to be the protocol but the ground did belly out now.
Spoiling adrenaline swelled his insides and sloshed when the bike clipped bumps. Injuries entertained at every juncture of his body and every function of domestic wellbeing. His knees might go: scratch football season. The handlebars impaling his innards squelched would illuminate indulgences, beef burritos, mint ice cream, maybe grape nerds could still be dissolved upon his tongue, but he couldn’t crunch them. Nothing dared incapacitate his genitals, just snug and doughy; he wished he had on a cup. Salty peanut buttery paste along his molars remained from those vending crackers; he sent his tongue wriggling back after it, mouthing, dissolving the gunk loosed.
The bike taking the nosedive, his grip bit the rubber treads into his hands and he perpetrated a tricep-dip establishing his weight over the handlebars. The downward ramp went cleanly and he meted down his feet, skimming the grasses, scuffing, shuffling along the ground, exercising pressure, snag-snagging into babystepping the bike to a stall.
Leaves ticked against his colddulled legs below the shorts. He wallowed against the scratchiness, deliberating the curt sensation. He released the handlebars: the rubber prongs hadn’t stenciled burrs into his palms, but worked them wholly abraded.
Steadfastly planted, he looped his leg over the frame, his balance stalling when the leg had achieved a lofty arc. His feetbottoms were abraded, burrs pinching under shifts of weight. He buckled his knees, lowering into as much of a crouch as the straddled frame allowed. He broadened his feet by waggling them out. Testing the rigidity of the top tube against his gooch, a pleasing lull accepted the bar. He allowed it a notch more weight, which pinched off the cunning tingle.
Maximizing the sprawl of his posture, he banked the bike over, laying it down, sliding the top tube down his inside thigh, closing the other foot in behind the tire until the biped of rigging and tubing laid under his narrow stance.
He stepped out of the wreckage in perfect working order, brushing indulgently against the scratchy bushes. Blackness of scenery conveyed his need for the bikelight. He unclipped it, and for a number of moments indulged a wooziness that sought motionlessness.
Facing perpendicular to it, he pointed the light towards the protrusive tree, failing to be illumined. The faint spray of light construed its nebulous over the road. Maintaining the trajectory, he proceeded into the spray, jamming his step into the bank. The jam stayed dull and tight at the fore of his ankle. He managed the step’s worth of rise and trekked with marginal steps into the spray.
An arm of leafage received the illumination interstitially, and he nestled his steps up to the sprawling body of leafage. Its scratchiness relegated the occupying entity into a common member of the natural margins. He traced around the tree, hunting its trunk, its connection or severance.
The chalky spray could only illuminate a portion at an aim, so the endeavor went myopically while bulbous thrusts scratched him, surprising his position to the tree. The trunk jutted well out into the street, but no breakage appeared. A swivel of the spray slipped into a gnarl of splintering, the wood fibers severely twisted.