The Bicycle on Kramgasse

Bern, nineteen years old, and the only thing I own outright is a bicycle with a bent rear wheel.

Kramgasse in the rain is a river of arcades and clock towers, and I ride it badly, gloriously, on my way to a job I will one day buy the building of.

I don't know that yet. At nineteen you don't know anything except appetite.

But I remember the bicycle. Years later, when they call me ruthless, I think of the bent wheel and how far it still carried me.

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