We traveled on remote roads, slepting under the bikes. We crossed borders, and ate bread with dust.
I remember a story on that trip to the northern mountains, with John and his colleagues, those outlaws. From the top of a hill, we could see an esplanade next to the beach. Tents, a stage, people catching waves... We needed some spree and marijuana and it sure that there we could find our place.
We descended with the bikes and parked next to an old chevi caravan, we asked a eared and blonde guy who looked like a surfer about marihuana, we exchanged a few words. Two minutes later Ben and I were getting into his caravan and that guy pulled out a bag, I don't remember his name. But there would be at least a kilo. […]
At the end we also saw a couple of concerts and met some girls who accompanied us the days after leaving the festival. I do not remember much more, just that we smoked from that bag two whole weeks, because a friend of John stole the morning we left. […]
True, that bike was scrap metal. It was shattered! every thousand miles we had to do it a review. Carburetor, tightening screws, check the wires, today I think It was cursed. But to think of what I could felt in every mile that went ride her was synonymous with freedom. […]
When I knew that I had little time, I realized that I had come into the world to die. I think the only thing I did until today was to live.
Construido con Berta.me
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