Like every year, the cold winter would painfully soak into his leg, taking him back to years gone by. Lubricating the sprocket of a rusty bicycle, he remembered his father doing his own maintenance every night before every race, checking it over and over again:"Go to bed, we'll leave early tomorrow and I want you rested".
He looked on the shelf of the dirty workshop at the photos of those glorious times and the shiny trophies that Antonia carefully cleaned to remind him that he had no regrets, no regrets about the sacrifices, no special meals and no holidays to pay for the Cannondale, which he never repaired. He did, if he repented every winter that reminded him of the bolts in his leg, the sacrifices that did not work, his father's disappointment and the promises that Antonia would never ask him to keep.
The end of the morning on TV and the gut rattle warned him that it would be lunchtime soon. He decided to close early completely, with the cold no one rides a bike thought.
At the doorway a familiar voice called out,"Dad, can I fix it?" He heard of a shy teenager holding the forgotten Cannondale waiting for a no.
He looked at him with a heavy heart and struggled to his feet. He took the bike looking at it with nostalgia for the person he met at a distant old friend and hung it up to clean it up carefully as he began to recount that last race for the first time.
