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

continuation

There he was. A seven miles bridge ahead. Riding above the calm water, below an infinite blue sky scattered with inspiring clouds. Blues everywhere. It was worth the ride.

A couple of hours, and two flat tires, later he finally arrived to Key West. Once there he did not know what to do. He had been there before twice. He checked in a motel and went for a walk along Duval Street. He had a frozen chocolate key lime pie for dinner and went back to dive into bed.

The following morning he rented a car and started a sad way back. Sad because he was in a car, sad because it was over, sad because he had not find what he was looking for.

"Why did I ride my bike all the way down here?" He kept asking himself while covering the route backwards on the comfortable seat of a sport utility vehicle.

Everything would be as he left it. Yes, it would. And that thought made him smile. The only thing he needed to be happy was to pedal. He knew then. And pedaling, pedaling is just an attitude...

Redemption Song by Bob Marley, his soundtrack on the way back.

the end and a beginning

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

continuation

He crossed over to the keys early in the morning. From then on he would be surrounded by water. The ride from there would be easier. He was sad the end was close. He really was. He did not want to go back. Back to his office, where he used to face his computer and a wall full of memories from the past. Memories that he liked to collect. Pictures, cinema tickets, postcards, post-its, anything would make him feel better. Anything would let him travel far away while heating up his chair with his butt. A tan he was getting because of the radiation of the screen of his computer.

He aimed to be done earlier than usual. He only stopped once, at a small beach. There, he was hypnotized by the beauty of small things. The sea breeze brought to life the surf that was embracing the rocks. As if every pile of surf was a creature trying to get away from a deathly fate. He felt sorry for himself. The wind would soon pull him back to the sea, where he would not feel alive anymore.

"What does to be in love mean?" He thought out of nowhere.

He stayed at Long Key State Park, under a shelter away from everyone. Primitive camping they call it. It was paradise for him. The shelter was by the beach and had an outdoor shower. He run naked, he dived naked into the water.

He went to bed early. He wanted to get to Key West as soon as possible the following day, and that meant an early start. Only then paradise turned into something else.

They were not insects. They were extraterrestrial tiny robots. They were all over his face. They divided his face into an infinite number of microscopic pixels. They were changing his face pixel by pixel. He tried to get rid of them with his hands. They would be gone but soon back. They were never going to stop. His mobility inside the sleeping bag was limited. One of them got into his ear and walked towards his brain. Once there it looked for the hypothalamus and attached a string to it. They were trying to fight him back. He touched a different nose first. A different mouth. He was scared. All of a sudden he could not fight back anymore. The one who made it to his brain started throwing sexual stimuli at him. He got horny first. His arms stopped moving. They were succeeding at changing his face. He would be someone else by morning. Then, it came the relief.

The following morning he woke up and got up and run towards the restroom half a mile away and opened the door and stood still in front of the mirror. He sighted when he saw his reflection on the mirror. He looked as he remembered. Unfortunately, the other half of the dream turned to be something but a dream, and he was in need of a shower a change of underwear and Relax by Mika.

to be continued

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

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

continuation

He woke up early, took a quick shower and walked his bike to Super Walmart. He locked it outside and went in to exchange a tire he had bought the previous evening hoping it would fit. He already knew then it wouldn't, but still bought it. He had done it may times before. Do something he knew it was wrong. Something he knew he would have to undo. Was he so insecure?

He decided to ride west to West Palm Beach. He had only one tube he could count on in his backpack. Twenty miles until South Bay, and then thirty more miles surrounded by nothingness until the outskirts of West Palm Beach. Once there, he would be safe. Once there, he would be able to look for a so desired local bike shop. By the beach many people ride bicycles. In Clewiston, some people live in shabby houses but, of course, have a ginormous pickup truck parked in the careless yard.

Nothingness means nothingness. His brain, though, would keep him busy. Sometimes it would go blank. Emptiness. Only then he would feel the ephemeral taste of freedom.

The road became more and more dangerous. Truck drivers are all on the phone. It was red. It passed as close to him as it could without touching him. A red truck. He was thrown out of the road and let himself fall into the mud. Sitting there he smiled at the next truck driver. Also on the phone. The one that would have taken his life away if he would have been thrown in rather than out. A sign caught his attention: Lake Okeechobee Trail.

"Of course, for mountain bikes," he thought, still smiling, before laughing.

He carried his bicycle up a little hill. Paradise. The trail was paved and the lake, the lake was gorgeous. He felt then his luck was changing. He, for the first time in a long time, flew rather than ride. He cried again. But those were tears of joy. An eagle flew over his head, and for an instant he wished it would have never ended, it preceded his saunter. The eagle. The lake. The hill. Pause. Where is the remote?

After that, monotonous. He had a flat tire ten miles away from his goal. A second one, two miles later, after being invited to a hot dog without a dog by a solitary street vendor. Eight miles to walk. And then, and then Walter.

"Dios te ha puesto en mi camino. Y con eso me ha brindado la posibilidad de tomar una decisión. Ayudarte o no ayudarte."

He stopped his trailer in the middle of the road. All the cars behind started honking. He, and his bike, jumped in. The truck driver gave him a ride to the trailer parking first, where they jumped into his pickup truck, and to a bike shop later. Unfortunately, in the first bike shop they went to they did not have the tire he needed. A matter of size. Nevertheless, they referred them to a second one.

"No tienes que invitarme a cenar," he said. "Si quieres devolverme el favor, lo único que tienes que hacer es ayudar a esa persona que Dios pondrá en tu camino para brindarte, como a mí, la posibilidad de tomar una decisión."

Walter was from Cuba. He had won a Green Card while he was in prison for making money under the communist regime. Once free, he had moved to Florida leaving behind a wife and two daughters that would soon be with him after seven years apart. And then, the same way he arrived, he left.

That night, for the first time, he fell sleep knowing that he would make it to Key West. Knowing that getting to Key West was not important anymore. While listening to Corazón Loco by Bebo & Cigala, and the swinging of the waves.

to be continued

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

continuation

He woke up when it was still dark. Had some breakfast and got ready for the ride. He ate everyday the same. Chocolate milk, cereals, fruit, and peanuts for breakfast. Four Clif bars during the ride. Potato salad, fruit, and yogurt for dinner. That kept him always physically able to ride. There was always a store close enough. He finally had the chance to check if Gatorade is better than water. They claim it is. Some studies say it is not. He felt better after a gulp of Gatorade than after a gulp of water. It must be the taste. It must be the color. He felt yellow.

He left the Highlands county behind. Welcome to the Glades county. The scattered wealthy communities of mostly retired people turned into spread redneck communities. Long empty roads. Only then he felt lonely, wondering what he would do in case something happened to him. He felt in the middle of nowhere.

There are many kinds of pavements. There are pavements that fly. There are pavements that shine, and pavements that burn. There are pavements that bite, pavements that scratch, that caress, and that hurt.

Shoulders are full of litter, drive safely memorials, and dead animals. A mountain bike would have had fun in the Glades county.

He had a flat tire. He had a flat tire. He had a flat tire. Three in ten miles. His back tire was as thin as smoking paper. His right forearm was hurting. It is not trivial to achieve 100 psi with a mini pump. It is less trivial to achieve them three times within ten miles.

He arrived in Clewiston later than he would have desired, and decided to stay in a campground. Asked three different questions getting always the same answer: Super Walmart. Unfortunately, they did not have the tire he needed, the tube he needed, the food he needed. There are cities built around a river, a harbor, a lake. There are also cities built around a Super Walmart.

Without a new back tire he would not be able to ride. He had two options, and one of them became really tempting, quitting.

"Why am I doing this?" Still toying with the same question. "Why do I need to worry?"

The other option was going west to West Palm Beach instead of going South as he had planned. There are no bikes stores in the middle of nowhere. A one day delay.

As the sun went down he felt sad. He remembered why he was there. He cried and wondered why he was not able to feel the joy he felt on his bike while working. Why at work he was always feeling as if he was standing still, constantly pumping air, one tube after the other. It was not his forearm, but his heart which was damaged. Wounded motivation.

He fell sleep despite of the smell. Fields of manure. His legs were feeling good. It was his right forearm which was bothering him. He could not write. He wished he could fly, he wished Glósoli by Sigur Rós was able to teach him.

to be continued

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

continuation

He had an early start. Thought about quitting already, but decided to keep riding south. He would be resting at the Highlands Hammock State Park eighty something miles later. The day was beautiful, so were the Highlands County roads. He enjoyed riding along a smooth flow of vehicles. Wide and clean shoulders. Scattered wealthy communities of mostly retired people. Fields splashed with orange trees. A place to hide and take a nap. The clouds were not clouds anymore in a blue canvas. They were sailing boats, they were fields of cotton, they were butterflies. Butterflies like the ones he felt in his stomach.

"Love is like cycling," hypnotized. "It's there as long as you keep pedaling... Once you stop, love will still be there, but will eventually fade... How long will it be there? That depends on the friction of the pavement and the slope of the hill... You better be going downhill if you wanna stop pedaling and keeping her by your side..."

But then again, someone used to tell him that the imagination of a child and the reasoning of a grown up are enough to connect life with bullfighting, or death with designing, or, as he was doing now, love with cycling.

While riding, thoughts. A waterfall of them. One after the other. Thoughts he would have never connected arose, one after the other. A headache. He had been in love four times and there was only one thing in common to all of his failures. That was him. A smile. Rafa had told him about two kinds of people, those who are meant to walk alongside with someone, and those who are meant to have an impact in the life of many people, but would always walk alone.

"What kind of person are you?" Sebring was close when he had the first flat tire of the ride, he laughed. "How do I relate this to love now?"

He slept in the middle of the forest, surrounded by trees and animals that kept visiting him all night.

His closest friends, only those who had been close enough to see through his wall of confetti, knew about his bittersweetness. The one he enjoyed then, in front of a beautiful sunset, while listening to Bittersweet Symphony by The Verbe. Jesús, his cousin, used to tease him with his supposed resemblance to Richard Ashcroft. His cousin, of course, uses glasses.

to be continued

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

continuation

He did not mention his idea to many people. Definitely he did not mention it to his mother. It would have been too much for her. Four thousand six hundred and twenty nine miles would have been nothing for her. Six people he had mentioned it to. Plus he sent an email to Sun Mi right before leaving.

The alarm clock went off at six o'clock in the morning. Everything was ready but him. He sat on the edge of the bed for an hour thinking about getting back under the comfort of the sheets.

"Why am I doing this?" The question resounded in his mind, hurting for three thousand and six hundred seconds.

He took a deep breath before standing up and going to the bathroom. He look at himself in the mirror.

"As it is for now... I... don't... care..."

He grabbed his backpack and left. An sleeping bag, ten pairs of socks, ten briefs, a board short, a pair of pants, a pair of thick tights, a t-shirt, a long sleeve shirt, a raincoat, peanuts, seven Clif bars, two tubes, an air pump, two tire levers, an iPod, a cellphone, a pen, a notebook, and Focusing by Eugene Gendling, and that was all he could fit.

He was surrounded by water. The humidity was so high that the cyclocomputer stopped working.

"Now I have to go back," but he did not.

The sound of a loose cage annoyed him and made him stop at a solitary car repair where a man was standing looking at the floor.

"Good morning!"

Silence.

"Do you think you have something to tighten this cage?"

Silence.

He went into the office and came back after a minute or two. He looked me in the eyes before aiming at my right eye with a nail gun.

"Is that what you really need, cheater?" He fired. "Now you can't run, only cowards run, are you a coward, asshole?"

There was blood all over his body. He could not see a thing. He listened to his maniac laugh before falling down. He fainted and never woke up.

"You have finally found what you were looking for, haven't you?"

He went into the office and came back after a minute or two. Without saying a word he tighten the cage and went back to whatever he was doing before he interrupted his pleasant early morning start with a loose cage.

He rode about eighty miles to Clermont. The ride was nice for the first part but it got boring as the day went on and the weather improved. It did not take long for him to realize that what he was doing was somehow dangerous for the lack of respect some drivers have towards cyclists. It would take only one mistake for his mother to feel it four thousand six hundred and twenty nine miles away. Nevertheless, that was his last concern at the time.

"You met me at a very strange time of my life," Where is my mind by The Pixies and the feet on the ground.

to be continued

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

Love. Hate.
Friends. Family. Friendships. Relationships.
Work. Deadlines. Pressure. Stress.
Girlfriends. Ex-girlfriends. Non-girlfriends. Non-boyfriends.
Commitments. Responsibilities. Grown-ups.
Spirituality. Religion.
Money. Rent. Bills.
Past. Present. Future.

Stop.

Cabin depressurization.

The idea came to him as many other ideas before, while talking to someone. Heidi listened to how he would like to ride his bike alone from Gainesville to Key West. He had been toying with the idea of someday, not in the near future, following the steps of one on his best friend's boyfriend and going around the world on his bicycle. Nevertheless, as soon as he listened to his words he felt as many other times before. Some people live through what they say, some people live through what they do. That is what he used to reel off. He could not stand the fact that he had become a dreamer without drive. But he had got used to it. He was always ready to plan the seed of his future impotence. Masochistic dreamer.

This time, though, it was different. Dangerous impulse.

"I need to take some time off. It's difficult for me to admit it, but I'm in the verge of a depression," the tone of his voice fading.

"I understand. What are you going to do?" Rafa, inquiring.

"I'm going to Key West," he looked like he was not sure about what he had just said, as surprised as the person in front of him. "I'm riding my bicycle to Key West."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not, but I'm leaving on Tuesday," it was Sunday.

"Are you sure you're not running away?"

"I'm not sure, but I think I'm rather chasing..."

His iPod shift from something he did not recognize to Yo viviré by Celia Cruz, who did not only reinvented Gloria Gaynor's everlasting classic, but used it as her farewell song.

to be continued