Hello, I said to him and he said, hi. Looked down and his shoes looked awfully familiar.
I’ve worn those kinds of boots.
Some years ago I was a self-chosen villain in the city. Being a bike messenger means you have to keep up with certain, self-made, expectations and key words.
Fast. Daring. Not caring.
I rode my bike and owned the world. Or at least the streets in Stockholm and got ticket after ticket and crashed more times than the bird that’s trapped in a summerhouse struggling to get out through the closed windshield.
It was those kinds of boots he wore, same we use, SPD, the ones you click in and stuck to the pedal.
At work.
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