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Life under the bridge

Dawn returns in the morning, the hills do not exist, the shadow is caused by the twenty floors of the twenty buildings that are surrounding the street at dawn and dusk, the sun hardly exists either, only a couple of minutes at noon. Sidewalks on my street were narrow, the street was forked and had several dead ends, all we had was greenery, clean air and a lot of leisure time. Today, nowadays, there is no longer that of the old neighborhood. The walks are rare, the people do not know each other, the noise and dust prevail, the bicycle is a fossil of yesteryear. That is why I return from time to time a couple of times a year to that street and ride my bicycle, ring the bell and greet the neighbors, because the spirit does not change even if the body changes, things return to their initial state. And there I find myself in the middle of life and in the middle of the road, between the two sidewalks that move further and further away from each other along the length and width, I am a voice
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There is a child waiting ...

It is an ordinary town before becoming part of a medium-sized southern city. Transportation is rural, like the bus three times a day, like bicycles that run like butterflies in summer. It is an ordinary town before becoming part of a child's heart forever. There is a child there waiting on the afternoons of those sunny days to ride his first bike, circle the park, take a tour of the Calle Mayor and return home for dinner. Never alone, with or without friends, but accompanied by his bike. The bicycles are called baikas, the tricycles are tricycles and the brave ones that go fast down the slopes of the hills. In this town isolated by time, it has long been a town that no longer has those bicycle racks, which now has bicycle lanes and traffic police, because summers fly like spokes on a 28 ”Tourism tire. There is a development in children that makes them change, they stop seeing objects as toys and now see them differently, they are tools, they are utensils, they are vehicles. Thus ha

Black glasses and a road

He came from afar, not far away but far from at least a long time ago. On his bike he would cycle through various towns and return, always wearing his black glasses, on a circuit that lasted many years. I remember it was winter when he arrived for some repair, his baika was an unbalanced mix, he had Cross tires, Touring gear and dynamic parts of Track, nothing clear in his style. That day at the Atelier I talked to him more in depth, he had big concerns about little things, like trying to keep the mirrors clean on rainy days or going a long back road to find a place to rest. After that I didn't know anything. Travelers in quotation marks passed and also the seasons of the year, the cold, the rains and the heat. Earthquakes and hurricanes. The normal of these parts of the world. After many years I heard about him from his accident in a nearby town, he had died one night near a main road, his bicycle destroyed. Only in my imagination do I hope that he has a rest, that he has found a

The good time

In the corners there are many stories, there is always an immense possibility of knowing the incredible adventures of a few or simple and flat gossip from the majority of people around. This is how I met a passing traveler, a one-day character, he was an older young man who for many years had been wandering around on his bicycle from here to there. He had come to our neighborhood over a summer, he was in the Atelier to repair his baika assembled from a wheel alignment. When the older young man, whom I do not remember his name at this time, talked about his pilgrim journeys, he did so with a certain conviction of memory, shame and pride. - I was never afraid of walking on the roads at night, - he said with that certainty of walking victorious - what I feel is an electric sensation of knowing what there is after a certain place and after another and so on forever. The family, well thank you, the slave labor, the money and the property, they are nothing to me. I am from the road, I am the

La Verde

Mr. Yé is very grumpy, he gets angry easily, he is a middle-aged person who lives near the Center, I knew him because he always scolded me when I did a moderately bad job on his bicycle, a solid steel wheel 28 with muddy tires , with a small flashlight placed in the middle of the handlebar a little rusty from the rains throughout the year. La Verde was as he called it, the bicycle could be dirty on the outside, a little neglected due to the weather, but deep down Mr. Yé had a lot of affection and appreciation for his means of transport, for his traveling companion among the twilight mists and the clarity of the night. The mood changed Mr. Yé when he rolled on top of his Green between the sidewalks of the city. Not long ago I learned that La Verde disappeared, it was stolen by some petty thief in the middle of a winter, I learned that Mr. Yé had lost his spirits and that he has been more curmudgeonly than before, his health has also worsened, he looks sad and angry with everything. Life

The turn

When I was a child I heard for the first time about a great bicycle race, it was going to happen near where we lived and there was a lot of anticipation. By then the Atelier was just starting, everything was exciting and although I did not fully understand it, I felt that it was something spectacular, an event of great magnitude to remember. Later came adolescence, between the hormones between the experiences on the edge of the maximum, between the recesses of the limits, I returned to find myself with the spectacle in the middle of the sport. I practiced road cycling, kilometers traveled a couple of days a week, accidents, achievements and failures, all around emulating the great races. Today I discover the magnitude of the importance of things in a different way, I reread stories of cyclists, I keep historical statistics, I have the normal curiosity for novelty, but the passion has been transformed. At present I carry the route more in my heart than in my muscles, the brain serves to

250 kilometers away

In the spring of life, most things sulphurize a vitality that is not controlled by any will, the forms exceed reasoning, the desires fly and the impulses are on the surface, they exist so that the organism experiences a sensation of excess, a cluster of energies that overflow by the impulse of existence and the power of the energy just created in man. After noon of youth one focuses the forces in the direction of a line, an objective that represents the victory justified by the result, by the place in the competition and by the feelings that come from success against those of failure. In any field, the young man wants to be the first, but career and love are where this goal is most focused. The man who returns home and feels happy, the individual who manages to achieve his goal and feels the happiness among happiness, the men who in the end find what they have sought for a long time, receive the grace to give and receive, are givers of effort and dedication, it is an emotion that is sh