Kids and cycles

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

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

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