There are a lot of different bicyclists here. Some, try to break the sound barrier some try to be faster than the joggers. Some always carry a girl(when he is a boy), some always go beside a girl, some go along with friends(both men and women), and some ride alone. Afternoon; they ride with friends, Evening; no one is alone, always with their significant other. It is during night, I observe the most intriguing. Few return from their work late at night, tired, dizzy, barely keeping control of the bicycle. A few businessman, with their goods, ride along the empty street. Few madmen, spoiled by the liquid named alcohol, cycle over asphalt, making an adventure of their own. It seems that they are in complete peace with the universe. Their zigzag pathway and shaky handle reminds me of a child learning to ride a bike. Among the riders, I see a few poets, with a typical hanging jeans bag. Maybe, they return to their home, after spending a day at a magazine’s office, trying to convince the editor that the poem he wrote is worth publishing. During all day, and evening, I don’t get much distracted by the sound of bicycles, and it’s bells. But I just can’t ignore the clear and delicate sound of dust, tires and drivewheels at night. The riders make me think about them, their lives, their old bicycles, their struggle for existence.


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