A Broken Bike
How did I get here?
I used to be whole, a frame of the wind. I used to race down streets of all inclines at velocities most don't even dare to achieve, just because I knew I could. How did I end up with one wheel missing and the other at my side, propping me up as I tell this tale?
I used to be fast, the biggest speed demon known. My name was sung praises from the dirt trials here in the west to the pavements out east. The rotation of my wheels inspired works of art that can only be described as "kinematic." How did I end up here, struggling to move the few gears in my system that haven't been consumed by the rust in my system?
I used to have it all. There were tricycles that begged me for a single moment of my time, all to ask a simple question: "How can I grow up to be like you?" The sturdier, heavier, casual bikes would demolish every ounce of pride and superiority they gave themselves, every hope of ever being respected by their loved ones, even at times every cent of their savings, all to grovel at my treads, all in hopes for … let's say "have an intimate hour" with me. Very few of those succeeded. I had the most regal of residences, all the oil and extra chains a bike could wish for to accessorize and improve my peak velocity. How did I get here, in this wrecked and pitiful state, with no one in sight willing to even offer simple assistance?
I don't have the answer to that question anymore.
You probably were expecting a story, just as I was. But in the time it took for me to build up my story, the rust has reached the central portions of my frame, and now I can't even remember anything. I don't even remember my own name.
How did I get here? Where was I from? Who am I?
How did I get here?