Kiko Meets Mike I


I finished Harry Potter the Seventh. I think that that with class ending, will mean that I have more time. I’ve been playing with Kiko’s story a fair piece, perhaps inspired by a good Novel (Harry Potter). I think that I want to read Marius’s Book next.

This is an attempt at illustrating the broad daydreamy expanse of riding in New York City, with constant stimulae shaping and deflecting your daydreams. If you ride in NYC -without headphones- this is what happens, it is an altered state afforded to the hearty. Holla at me. Here Kiko meets Mike, which is how things tart to happen in a linear way again. I want to speed up the pace. And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.

But, every morning Kiko would look forward to the ride that began his day. To start it was hard to make it to Manhattan in an hour, but after a week it was easy to make it there in 50 minutes. He learned the tangle of traffic, cutting through the places which initially slowed him down or stopped him. Before he knew it Kiko had fallen into a rhythm, daily and 90 times a minute. Daily, he’d wake up looking forward to a ride, the space that had daunted him before he started riding home, was now a great open sea of possibility, where he could be alone and outdoors for some time. Fuera aparte de negócios seculars. He was free from the worries of the day for that hour or so, he could meditate on his family and life back home when he had saved up enough to move back and buy a house and a semi-trailer truck or some other business. That hour was a broad sheet made up of 90 revolutions per minute that passed as regularly and as silently as a mouse’s heartbeat. The tracks on this space were un-marked by anyone, but made up a texture and meter so fine that only Kiko could appreciate it.

It was on one of these predawn rides that he met Mike scrambling through the labyrinth that protects the Queensboro Bridge from people in a vain attempt to make it efficient for cars to crawl over it. Kiko had just made it past where Northern Boulevard becomes Jackson Ave as it crosses Queens Boulevard after the bridge over the rail yards. These blocks are the most stressful of his ride because of all of the blindspots the girders create. At 20 miles an hour it feels like running through a forest with the steel supports that are actually 30-to-60 feet apart seeming packed together. To ride through in a car, with a dedicated lane is stressful, but to ride through it searching for a safe lane or line is a lot like a slalom, on asphalt, between immovable columns, that obscure traffic. Often in the wee hours of the morning these girders have pedestrians hiding among them trying to evade the reasons that they are out on the Boulevard alone before dawn.


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