The air is heavy.
The climb is steeper than he remembers.
The cyclist changes gear.
Then again.
And again.
Until there is nothing left.
The last gear.
The road continues upwards.
His legs are burning.
His breathing is loud.
Every metre seems to ask permission from the next.
He looks ahead.
The top is still far away.
For a moment, he thinks about stopping.
Just for a few seconds.
Just enough to breathe.
But the bicycle continues moving.
Slowly.
Almost ridiculously slowly.
But moving.
Breathe.
Pedal.
Breathe.
Pedal.
Halfway up the climb, an old man is standing beside the road.
He is leaning on a wooden stick.
He watches the cyclist approaching.
As the cyclist passes, the old man smiles.
“Finally,” he says.
The cyclist turns his head.
“Finally what?”
But the old man is already gone.
There is no path.
No trees to hide behind.
Only the road climbing into the morning.
The cyclist looks back for a few seconds.
Then continues.
Breathe.
Pedal.
Breathe.
Pedal.
When he reaches the top, he feels no sense of victory.
Only silence.
He keeps pedalling.
Later, on the way home, his legs are tired.
His jersey is soaked with sweat.
The road is familiar again.
He thinks about the old man.
About the wooden stick.
About the smile.
And about that single word.
Finally.
He pedals on.
