It never rains but it pours

 

The golden bicycle was his pride and joy, his most prized new possession. It had a superb saddle, was just the right size for his leg length, good wheels with special tires, and it was easy to make it go like the wind.

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Sadly, the policeman on duty in the park was not so easily impressed with a posh bike ridden madly on park roads. When he saw the bike racing past he pulled out his notebook, pen and whistle (someone next to him mentioned ‘bodycam’ but he thought the person was speaking Ukrainian). He blew his whistle very hard and very loud. He knew he had to do this since in the past when he started running he found that he did not have enough breath to breathe, let alone blow a whistle. Having blown the whistle and he saw no sensible reaction by the cyclist, he started to run after the bike. After a moment he realised that he didn’t have to follow the park road and could cut across the grass direct to the bike.

The cyclist, when he heard the whistle let out an expletive at being caught. He stopped, got off his bike and put it on its stand next to a large tree. Hopefully this might hide it and he didn’t want it to get it dirty as it would be sure to if it was just thrown onto the ground. He looked round to see who had blown the whistle and realised that it wasn’t just a park keeper as he could just make out through the shafts of a children’s roundabout in the park, a policeman running across the grass.

 

The roundabout had three kids sitting on it. He ran up to it and squeezed in between two of them and tried to make himself look very small, to look like one of their mates. But his six foot height and his yellow cycling gear made this a bit difficult. They weren’t too keen on him being there and started to get off. He offered them chocolate if they helped a poor old man. They agreed but were a little unclear on what they were supposed to do.

 

The policeman running across the grass finally reached the bike by the tree. After taking a little while to catch his breath and admiring the superb bike whilst he did, he then looked round for the cyclist.

He saw the people on the roundabout, but from his point of view it was not clear to him who they were. I started to walk towards them.

 

Then ------

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What happens next - exceeds the Quinchenti!!! Did the policeman spot the rider? Did rider get away with it? Or did the policemen ‘nick’ the bike, not perhaps for taking to the police station as evidence or confiscation but for himself? Well did he? Would he? Sorry.