Squandering. Wasting time. Having fun. Shooting the breeze. Relax. The long life of a giant tortoise. 150 years? Sweat pouring over your sunglasses like a tap turned on. Armchairs wiped clean every morning. Astro turf swigging beneath as you walk, walk to the bay. A woman walks beside the metal railing high above the cliffs. These are not really walking roads. Undulating as hell. She has a backpack and two large carry bags like she’s just stepped out of a supermarket.
Hard men of the cycling world. Italian hard men. Pantani, was he one? Apparently he would go starving if his mumma or sister were not home to cook for him.
“Vincenzo” mamma says, waving her arms skyward, “why do you always dirty your clothes with the grease?”
“Mumma, the grease is like a oxygen, it gets in everything.”
“What about in the space Vincenzo? Why don’t you clean your bike in the space?”
There’s always a leveller. Someone or something to beat your ego to a pulp and ask you to start again. Burp. Burp again. These gases are uncouth. I take the descent into Tossa slowly. Shane goes fast. Shane burbs incessantly. He’s getting all the gas out between girlfriends.