“It takes place in an impalpable grayness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid scepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary.”
I tell myself that if I had access to a shop, the bike wouldn’t be a shade-tree redneck Frankenstein’s monster. That the mounts for the dished tank would be welded on, that the tabs and struts to mount the sundry parts would be attractive, perhaps hammer-finished steel.
I may even be telling myself the truth.
“… how long can I return and be, how long can the odour of the most deeply buried flowers, of the waves most finely pulverized on the high rocks, preserve in me their homeland where they can return to be fury and perfume?”
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