passing dusted olive fields that are guarded by broken wind mill wheels you enter Sa Pobla at siesta time, the streets are empty, the lights are green, the whole town looks like a dozing daydream, just a cat crosses your slipstream in front of the café San Jaimes, next to the house with the lemon window frames. Then you're off to Sineu and Llubi, you smell bundles of garlic and see bushes in ruby, see farm houses that wait to be sold, at least that what the sign "se vende" has told, these fairy tale farms that look ragged and old, but still have their grace, you see it even in the moment's haze, the split of the second while you bike by, really this is no lie, and maybe these old houses should just remain how and where they are, instead of being renewed by people that came from far, but it's not up to you to decide, your only goal now is the ride, is the fight against the wind that tries to blow you away, against the heat that blazes the day, against the part in you that wants to back off, that wants to take it easy, just do a quick ride and then head back home like Tweasy

the wind in locomotion sets the fields of corn in motion, framed by flowers in red and yellow and white, glowing in their own bee light, you taste the flavour of camomile in the air, overpowering you with the flair of journeys done and journeys to come, you savour the sights, you even hitch a ride on your own bike with a pair of butterflies, the ones that come with tiger eyes, you are all here and there without any past ties, you feel like riding to the end of the earth, all the way to Paris, Moscow and Perth, that's what you think while you race down to Manacor, you feel like going on for evermore, until the dead end at the sea shore, a supersonic stunner, a cosmic elite runner for one long and crazy summer, that's what you want to be, free like a spirit in an invisible coat, free to see how all these thoughts unfold, free to run to the end of the road, for the sake of good and bad, for the risk of turning to glory or turning sad, and although some say this is simply mad you know that this is your chance of being remade, even so it cuts like a blade, and there ain't no soothing sorry, cause to get this you must learn how to rap this

then you are in Felanitx and turn to the holy hill, turn into the street that can be climbed only by the want of will, leading up to the cross in the sky, more than five hundred meters high, you pass a chapel, you keep on breathing, you keep on climbing while the road keeps teasing, but with every curve you see the world unfold, see the things below starting to mould, to turn into a miniature picture of the path you have come, and you feel like doing the final home run, feel like the last daughter of the last warrior's son, feel like coming undone, like finally becoming one

this probably doesn't sound too sane, but there in fact is no way to explain this feeling that is not about pain, this rides that are not about gain but about the memory that will remain, that gets painted by earth colours in your brain, that will stay with you as long as you can feel, that will form a page in your book of life for real, memories no thief can steel, treasures no trader can deal, handed down like a gift from an elf, to become a pearl in the shell of your self, to connect you with all the roads you travelled, with all the plateaus you levelled, all the coins you tossed, all the hopes you lost, all of them a part of you, all of it a transformation coming true, all of it part of life becoming you

so you ride on, high on exhaustion, powered by the steel of your own wheel, washed away by the glow of rhymes that rise inside you in endless lines, that lead you through the streets that flow through the valleys like rivers that turned to alleys, that take your black canyon bike on a ride to the other side, where the darkness turns to light, where the borders cross the night, leaving behind the blaze of pink pain that burns in your vein, leading you on to Petra, Ariany, Maria de la Salu, all your dream worlds may come true, think of me and bring me home to you, and you cross another bridge while the milestone gives you another stitch, and you flash around the corner that leads to the next junction, you shut down your thoughts, going on is your only function

and then it's Santa Margarita and you can see the blue of the ocean in roller coaster motion and it turns your exhaustion into a sea of glee and you feel like the element's trinity, feel free once more as you reach the shore, you race down the Ocean Avenue even so your muscles feel sore and your blood feels thin like gin mixed with water that got slaughtered, leaving you high and dry, not even able to cry, erasing the why, but the sea embraces your salty face and washes away the pain's trace, and blows through your mind and lets your fantasies unwind and fills you with poems of deepest human's kind

only some last miles still wait for you to be run down, waiting there to take away the frown, and you check the kilometres length, and you quench out the last of your leg's strength, and you count down from hundred to zero and back to ninety nine and you feel so damned hurting and you feel so damned divine and then you're there, back home, one hundred forty kilometres you have roamed, one hundred forty thousand metres you have crossed and you feel found and you feel lost, feel like a rock on the road, like a poem in overload, like a wheel in another dimension, spinning with emotions that are lifted from tension and you could sing and sigh, could live and die, you feel the world vibrating through you, you feel multi coloured and you feel blue, you feel worn out and you feel new

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