Pedaling faster, faster, faster—there is only so much more to go—faster faster faster faster faster; glory, exhilaration; steed, and rider; one, running, rolling, heaving up that hill, blistering hot, watering cold. The sun, the clouds, the branches at the side—scraping; to battle the typhoon, ride the tempest's winds; invincibility, and grit. The exhaustion, the raw screams without sound, only the constant shriek of the little gears, the metal, the chains. Oh, freedom, so free, so cold, so hard, the wind whipping the face, the wind that dashes the hair!
Then a plummet, a cold, enforcing stare; a plunk of itching oppression, strapped under the chin. A ticket, report; a law, that glares down, down on the shock, the screech of the falling bird. To the ground you go, tramping slowly in the cold.