Kids and cycles

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

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

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

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

On a certain occasion, near the barrier between childhood and adolescence, I craved coffee. On hot days it is taken warm, on cold days it is taken very hot. At the Atelier there began to be a jug or two a day, consumed between morning and mid-afternoon. Working while enjoying coffee with music is not working. Unhappiness, life has told me, moves with unequivocal rhythms between the misery of the future or the past and the enjoyment of the present. A good ride on a rainy summer morning after greeting a beautiful woman and, on the contrary, a painful fall in the middle of the road next to the winding road. The bicycle I never owned was brown, but the taste that is savored on a calm day always brings the aromatic flavor of coffee, that liberator of energy that works very well for the cyclist. Today, unfortunately, I only have to drink coffee and watch the shoot of the last years of youth go by. _____ El café Cierta ocasión, cerca de la barrera entre la infancia y la adolescencia apetecí e

At the beginning of autumn the strong north winds intensify, there are small blizzards, great fluttering of leaves and the temperature drops, it falls. Then the cold arrives, the icy feeling of the world, the moment when the activity stops, is when there are no rides, there are no laps and it becomes more difficult to occupy the baika. But anyway, freedom begins at any moment, that's what happens in those situations... _____ Movido por el viento A principios de otoño arrecian los fuertes vientos del norte, hay pequeñas ventiscas, grandes revoloteo de hojas y la temperatura desciende, se cae. Entonces llega el frío, la sensación gélida del mundo, el momento en que se detiene la actividad, es cuando no hay rodadas, no hay vueltas y se hace más difícil ocupar la baika. Pero como sea, la liberta empieza en cualquier momento, así es lo que acontece en esas situaciones...

Realmente es ella, la miro fijamente y pienso que ciertamente es ella.  Seguro que no tuvo hogar antes de llegar, no tenía un verdadero compañero antes de quedarse aquí en el Atelier durante seis meses. Llegó como marcada, con la cubierta manchada, el pasado sucio y el presente borroso. Era una baika rota del alma. Entre lo frío del hierro la cuidamos, la conservamos entre lo etílico de la pintura.   Ahora es una pequeña señora bicicleta, es una dama sin realeza pero con una vida enderezada por las correctas herramientas de aire y caucho. Pasó el invierno en el sótano de la memoria junto a otras personalidades de dos ruedas, de una rueda o sin ruedas. Recobró el color del ánimo, al lado de piezas cromadas, piezas nuevas, piezas de segunda mano. Mañana se irá con su acompañante, un niño de doce años, a dar una mínima vuelta al mundo, comenzar a rodar por las callejuelas y los polvorientos caminos, a dar una minúscula vida al manillar y a los pedales. Hay una salvación para el plástico d