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As a kid I always wanted a cycle of my own. My father could not afford one and I was left borrowing short rides off cousins who when feeling generous would let me ride around for a while. The day came when my cousin was leaving our town for good. His father left me the old bicycle. Clutching my father’s hand, I could hardly sit still for the 6 hr bus ride with my cycle secured atop the bus. It seemed like the bus ride would never end… At last we reached and I climbed onto the bicycle only to discover the tyre was flat… as flat as my heart felt. Head hung low, we made our way home. I dragged around my heavy heart all day at school the next day. My life seemed impossibly bleak, like I could never recover from this heartbreak. Making up fantastic stories as I always did, I made my way home… and then there was my father, I must surely be dreaming, with that cycle repaired and everything. The joy was as limitless as the heartache for my tiny heart. On that day the world was mine.
It has been over two decades since that day, when I look at a cycle (weird colors or not) it always brings back the memory of that day inside me. Inside me there is still the boy who can conquer the world on that little bicycle…