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For Wordsworth, spots were key moments in his life; they formed remarkably vivid memories. He talks about the compression of time, the heightened senses, the feeling of being inside something important. He experienced spots most consistently in nature, and although many call his experiences mystical Wordsworth denied any supernatural element to these moments. Rather, they are about as grounded in this earth as you can get.
If Tolkien's Mordor had a bike shop, it would be just like Yojimbo's... It's dark and greasy and absolutely enchanting; like you've fallen into Middle Earth where Marcus has his fires, spells and magical anvils to transform crude metal into human powered devices. Marcus, the high priest, dreams of one day making these simple machines drop their earthbound curse and take flight.
Could Do It
He nudged the tyre as close as he could and then peered down over the handlebars. Small drops of earth trickled down the slope, stones bounding down after and overtaking before springing off into the undergrowth at the side.
A boy and his bicycle, nothing better defines subliminal bliss. The rudimentary simplicity of a boy on a bicycle cycling madly on green pastures and rolling hills, a warm breeze on his face, the sun beating on his back, serene music in the background. He is on an adventure, going cross country, standing in the shade of willow trees, eating hard boiled eggs with bread and butter and a pinch of salt. All done Enid Blyton style.
As he vanishes ahead we struggle uphill, feeling the booze soaking our veins and stalling our muscles. At 14th we slowly collect like bubbles in a soda glass. "Where's Karl?" someone asks, and I am quiet for a moment, waiting to see if anyone answers or if I am to be the one to respond to this question. "Gone," I finally say. Everyone is silent. It seems to be true. Our leader has finally and completely abandoned us, and now we see that it is dark, and late, as well.
Kim Cooper Findling
by an Angel? Nope, Whacked by a Honda
Frankly, you just don't ever know who you will run into while flying over the hood of a Honda Civic. Really. One minute you're out riding along on your bike, enjoying a nice sunny Saturday afternoon without a care in the world, and the next you're sailing through space while having a conversation with a guy who introduces himself to you as God.
Came on a Bicycle
The gray sky had given the entire landscape a monochromatic feel as Sharon sped down the boulevard toward Bellmore. Dreaming of her comfy sofa in Greenwich Village, she watched the mist that seemed to hang motionless in the air. Although it would have been more pleasant on a sunny day, vacations had to be taken when they were available. One simply had to make the best of what life offered.
Case of Bike Hate
To tell you the truth, I hate my bike. So help me God, I have dreams - not nightmares, mind - wherein from the tribunal comfort of my bed, I watch as punishing flames of crimson engulf my despicable contraption, torching it to a fine crisp. Nothing but nubs of pedal and bony bits of frame tubing remain, and to see even these, you will have to sift through a tiny dune of ash.