The other day, while sorting a fresh bundle of receipt rolls, I noticed how the stack of unsold cycling magazines still had last month’s Tour de France route map tucked inside. It reminded me of my own small annual brevet—fifty kilometres on my father’s Hercules—where sitting on a wheel means trusting the rider ahead to not brake suddenly for a pothole in the rain. That trust is earned, not given, just like in the shop: a regular customer gets their notebook measured without me checking the cash box first.
#cycling
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