Wherever he’s going, he’s in no hurry. He’s content to be riding.
Who knows how long he’s been on the bike. Sixty years? Seventy? He’s probably traveled to some amazing places in that time, and seen glorious and horrible things. Most of his ride, though, has been down comfortable lanes lined with ordinary things. Homes, families, workplaces.
He’s dodged a few potholes, been nipped at by dogs, and almost certainly fallen off the bike a few times. He’s undoubtedly picked up some road rash, a few bruises, some scars. But he’s still on the bike, still moving, and if he’s slowed down a bit and the streets are darker now…well, that’s to be expected as the long day comes to an end.
Soon enough he’ll stop. For now, he’s content to be riding.
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