Ever since I was little, I inherited from my brother Jesús (“Chucho”, who is six years older than me) and after very moderate and careful use, all his clothes and toys. This never bothered me, because I got everything in good conditions and our preferences were very similar.
Of all his legacies, the one I celebrated and enjoyed the most, was the great Phillips English bicycle, so well designed and constructed! Immediately, it became an extension of my body, and as such, I mistreated and took care of it alternatively. I can say –without exaggeration- that my puberty went by mainly on it, and that my first findings, adventures and mischief away from home, I was able to do thanks to the movility gained with its acquisition.
The “bírula” –which was too big at the beginning - soon became too small, but my attachment was absolute and never thought of replacing it; nevertheless, my dad (Jesús –“Chucho” as well) noticed the size incongruence and had “a great idea”: what he told me was he would have it renewed for me. My arguments that the original color and scratches gave to it a special character I particularly liked, and that the missing brakes and other parts was intentional to lose weight and gain excitement were not enough to dissuade him, so he took it away assuring I would like the final result.
When “mi bici” came back, I was very disappointed: from metallic blue changed to mournful black, and the general renovation made it look like one of those the provincial girls in European movies rode.
But there was another surprise. On the same day he brought up another bicycle, new, bigger and black as well… and it was not a Phillips! The “great idea” turned out to be that he would give away my beloved “bicla” to some poor boys he knew, and I would have the privilege to christen a heavy, not very well constructed Cóndor!... even altruism can cause collateral damage. Quite hurt myself, I didn´t want to hurt him (badly hurt from life already) so I faked joy, but bike riding was not the same anymore. Not long after, my dad passed away prematurely, my brother inherited the car from him, and I inherited –at premature sixteen- my brother’s car.
Andanzas (2012) is in gratitude to Chucho and Chucho; a memory of generous inheritances and of good intentions, as well as an evocation of all that I lived on my longed, rickety “bicoca”. It is also a symbol that in me, the transition from childhood to adolescence, and from adolescence to maturity, had more to do with wheels than with hormones.
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