Sitting between two cycles, one in front of me and one behind, a brake in each hand – but to stop all that is behind me, who would I be? And all that is before me? A yet more final death of identity. The seat was hard, but I learned to like it. And the spinning before and aft was so mesmerizing, I awoke every morning not knowing where I was. I just gripped the silver metal tubes and leaned my head into the wind, aaaaaaaaaahhh...
