Bicyclist

Hideo turned the steering wheel sharply to avoid the bicyclist.

Tom drove the injured bicyclist to the hospital.

Every bicyclist knows his own natural pace, and when departing from that must expect to be winded sooner or later.

In the morning of the 5th of March of 2022, I ate at the pizzeria and drank iced black tea at the cafe, where Rob with now long brown hair, with a black sweater and orange worker pants, entered to greet me and Don, sitting at separate tables. A brown man in a white T-shirt and sleeveless black vest came to get coffee, his muscular arms writhing. I spent a minute in the woods. As I approached my house, I waved to Derek my Filipino neighbour in a green tracksuit, his mesomorphic silhouette showing. In the sunny afternoon, going back to the pizzeria, I saw, on the other side of the main road, a whole Jewish family with children, all wearing Sabbath synagogue attire. I waved to Gurpreet the Sikh at the gasoline station. At the pizzeria's front, a thickset bicyclist in black parked and locked his bicycle. I ate a pizza slice and drank a cold diet cola. Northbound, homebound, I could see the snowcapped mountains. Near my home, I waved to my Fijian multiracial neighbours, the grandson Darius and his grandmother Moli, whose name meant "orange" in Fijian.

I label Rod, a bicyclist at the Lulu Island café, a spiritual "eclectic," this morning on the 22nd of August of 2022. He is a slim older white man. He talks to me, whilst I munch on salted vinegar potato chips with iced black tea, beside a favourite Spanish-language sci-fi book, Crónicas de Majipur, by Robert Silverberg. Rod believes that there is "one God," but I say that God could be either singular or plural, as number is a limitation on God. I wonder if he is a "pantheist" or "panpsychist," who believes that there is, at some level, the divine or the mind, respectively, in everybody and everything, even a "pillow." The terminology excites him. He shows me a video describing the complex Aztec calendar on his smartphone. The presentation is full of Aztec, aka Nahuatl, words, which he mistakes for "Mayan." I tell him that in ancient Mexico, the Aztecs were more like the Japanese, whilst the Maya were more like the Chinese. I utter some words presented in Nahuatl. He does not look too surprised that I know how to pronounce. We both have visited Mexico before.

Recently, American bicyclist Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France bicycle race for the seventh consecutive year.

“Yes, that is true, professor. I believe I’ve been guilty of doing so myself; but look here, Miss Eunice,” and he turned suddenly to the professor’s daughter, “they tell me that you are an enthusiastic bicyclist.”

Our policemen, of course, will be fitted out with large, twirlable moustaches and small, twirlable rolling-pins, and will be taught to turn their backs on traffic jams, but to blow whistles violently at solitary bicyclists.