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You change gears, pedaling toward a town that lost a leg in the war. I pedal faster and try to catch up, but the stick in my spokes won’t snap. I am out of water. I daydream about smoking a cigarette in Paris. Your bike looks like a metal horse missing a tail. You begin to ascend a hill. The steep upgrade does not speak for itself. I am out of shape, gasping for air, and I worry that my helmet cannot protect the skull that cages my owl brain. It hoots like crazy every day, and there is no doubt that it is endangered.

K a y l a   P o n g r a c

Bicycling Half Alone

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