Most people I once spoke with for more than fifteen minutes know how much I liked you. You were my pride, my Third World Rolls Royce, (in a third world where the grass smells like rain and the air sounds like spring). You were my first — functional —bikecycle because before Pancha there were two Rositas and one Mario but none of them generated in me the interest needed in order to learn how to pedal.
You were The one. You arrived at my twenties and you taught me how to ride, with an impeccable professionalism. Without fear, or using it as a motor, I ended up rolling like a champion.
I would say, now that I do not have you, that I would love to humanize you so you could give me a hug but, it is true that every time we hugged I ended up on the floor, bitching a bit because something was bleeding. It seemed that we lived for the anecdote each of those nineteen times in which we almost died during these last three hundred and five days. I haven’t been given the chance to see you old and it makes me sad to know that I will not be able to use your basket in another companion. I wish you the best (And a better chain, I only had the key left).
On the other hand, to the person who took my bike: I want you to know, that although it seems to me an act of the worst of the scam stealing a transport, I do not blame you. I know that society is rotten, a society of which I am a part of. They did not give you the possibility to learn that what is not property its not supposed to be touched. It is theft. Then I forgive yoIF I GET YOU I TEAR THE SHIT OUT OF Ytake care of my bike, a lot.