4.2.08

5. redemption (or i rode my bike across a seven miles bridge surrounded by blues)

continuation

He stopped at a red light. On his left there was a yellow Lamborghini Diablo, and behind it an also yellow Porsche 911 Carrera. They probably were fans of Tweety. He gave the Lamborghini's driver a fake defiant look. The driver arrogantly smiled back at him while putting his foot on the accelerator. The music was beautiful. The light turned green. He sprinted for four hundred and eighty three yards before letting go, laughing. They beat him, they won, good for them. There, he had no doubt that he was happier on his bicycle than two unknown drivers in his flamboyant cars. No matter how much his butt was hurting.

Riding from West Palm Beach to Miami had little to do with what he had been doing previously. The cars were nicer, people walking in the streets, surrounded by buildings. The nothingness was gone. He would still feel alone, though. There was no physical link to the reality which surrounded him. He was there, but far away at the same time. At least, from then on there would always be a phone nearby, water, food. Even a local bike shop. He felt somehow relieved, but at the same time he missed the dangerous neverending lonely roads that had brought him there.

"This is Hollywood!" He shouted out loud while riding into Hollywood, FL.

He still did not know the real reason of his ride. He, somehow, did not care anymore. He resigned himself to not find his reason for running away, for a desired standby. Sadness punched him in the stomach. He indeed was happy on the road. But he felt that happiness would be gone once his journey was over. Did it need to be over?

In Downtown, Miami, he dived into the fresh grass and took a nap. He was closer to his final goal. He felt sorry that the only way out from Key West was backwards. Forwards, just water. Two more days still.

While lying he saw an extremely obese man walking on a steep sidewalk. Twelve steps. Rest. Water. Twelve steps. Rest. Water. Twelve steps. Rest. Water. He admired him. Essentially, they were not that different. They both were challenging themselves. Timescales should not place people in different categories.

His white jersey was not white anymore. It would never be again. He did not care anymore about his appearance. The only thing that mattered to him was how in shape his legs were, and they were certainly in good shape. His right forearm was still hurting more than he would have liked, but he had learned how to handle the pain. He imagined himself living on the road. Forever. How long does forever have to last to be forever?

The day was smooth and as it rose it set. A nice sleep before leaving Miami and throwing himself into keys.

"Can we take a picture of you?" the gas station assistant asked after he told her his story.

In the picture, the charming lady, her generous husband, a friend of them that happened to be around, and himself. Good times, good night surrounded by an inexplicable melancholy, and In the waiting line by Zero 7.

to be continued

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