93: Chapter 93 The Bicycle Road

Uncle Zhou's bicycle finally could no longer be ridden.

It didn't stop working in a single day; it slowly became impossible to ride.

First, the chain started falling off; it would slide down after just a few pedals. He would squat by the roadside to put the chain back on, doing it three times, his hands covered in black grease.

Later, it was the tires. They were patched again and again, the inner tube covered in patches like an old scarf tied with many knots.

Then it was the brakes. When squeezed, they made no sound, so he relied on foot braking, wearing through two pairs of soles.

Xiao Zhao said: "Uncle Zhou, you should get a new one. Bicycles are cheap now; you can buy a new one for a few hundred yuan."

Uncle Zhou shook his head. "I won't change it."

Xiao Zhao asked why. Uncle Zhou said: "This bicycle has been ridden for forty years."

Xiao Zhao didn't try to persuade him again. But he noticed that Uncle Zhou came half an hour early every day to wipe the bicycle clean.

Using an old cloth, he wiped from the handlebars to the seat, from the seat to the back rack, and from the back rack to the chain.

After wiping, he applied oil, doing it very slowly, making sure every joint was covered.

The bicycle was polished until it shone; except for the bell, which wouldn't ring, everything else was silent.

On Friday, Uncle Zhou set off as usual. The bicycle creaked, and the canvas bag on the back rack was packed full.

He rode very slowly, but very steadily. Halfway there, the chain fell off again.

He squatted down to put the chain back on. After fixing it, he rode a few steps, and it fell off again.

He put it back on again, rode again, and it fell off again.

He squatted by the roadside, looking at the bicycle for a long time.

He remembered the first time he rode this bicycle; it was forty years ago in the spring.

Back then, the bike was new, the chain was shiny, the tires were black, and the bell rang as soon as it was pressed.

He rode it, starting from the Post Office, riding through Millfield, through Greenfield, and to those places whose names he didn't know.

Back then, the roads were still dirt roads, full of potholes, and riding them made his bottom ache from the bumps.

But he felt it was fast, much faster than walking.

Now the road was repaired, paved with asphalt, smooth and flat. But the bike could no longer be ridden.

He stood up and pushed the bike forward. After walking a few steps, he looked back. The road was still the same road, winding and stretching into the distance. He smiled and continued to push the bike forward.

The first stop was Millfield. When he arrived, the sun had just come out, and Eric was waiting at the entrance of the town. Seeing him pushing the bike in, he was stunned for a moment.

"Uncle Zhou, is the bike broken?"

Uncle Zhou nodded. "It can no longer be ridden."

Eric squatted down to look; the chain was hanging loose, the tires were flat, and the brake cable was broken.

He touched the rust and said: "This bike must have been ridden for many years."

Uncle Zhou said: "Forty years."

Eric stood up and looked at him. "Forty years. All on this road?"

Uncle Zhou nodded.

Eric didn't speak. He walked to the back of the bike and pushed the back rack. "Let's go, I'll take you."

Uncle Zhou shook his head. "No need. I can push it myself."

Eric didn't let go. The two of them pushed the bike and walked forward slowly. From Millfield to Greenfield, from Greenfield to Xinfeng Town. The road was long and winding, but they walked very slowly and very steadily.

When they reached Greenfield, Martha was playing the guitar at the entrance. Seeing them pushing the bike over, she put down the guitar and stood up.

"Uncle Zhou, is the bike broken?"

Uncle Zhou nodded.

Martha walked to the front of the bike and touched the handlebars.

The rubber grips on the handlebars had long since worn away, revealing the iron pipes inside, which had been polished bright by Uncle Zhou's hands.

She looked for a long time, then took a strip of red cloth from her pocket and tied it to the handlebars.

"This is for safety," she said.

Uncle Zhou touched the strip of red cloth. It was very soft and light, fluttering in the wind.

"Thank you," he said.

Martha shook her head. "I should be thanking you. You've been delivering letters for so many years."

By the time they reached Xinfeng Town, the sun was already setting. George was waiting for them at the entrance of the town.

Seeing Uncle Zhou pushing the bike over, he didn't speak, but walked to the back of the bike and pushed with Eric.

The three of them pushed the bike and slowly walked into the town.

Edna was standing at the church entrance, holding a letter in her hand.

She walked to the front of the bike and placed the letter in the basket.

The letter was very short, with only a few lines: "Uncle Zhou, this bike has delivered many letters. Thank you to it."

Uncle Zhou looked at the letter for a long time. He took the letter out of the basket and put it into his pocket. In that pocket, there was another unopened one.

He touched them, and the corners of his mouth curled up slightly.

That night, Uncle Zhou parked the bicycle at the church entrance. He stood in front of the bike and looked at it. The bike was very old; the paint had peeled off, the chain was rusty, the tires were flat, and the brake cable was broken.

But he felt it was beautiful. Even more beautiful than a new one.

George walked over and stood beside him. "Uncle Zhou, can this bike still be repaired?"

Uncle Zhou thought for a moment. "Yes. But even if it's repaired, it won't be ridden."

George didn't ask why. He squatted down and touched the wheels. The spokes on the wheels were one by one; some were loose, some were tight, and some were bent.

He touched them very slowly, as if touching a person's hand.

"Uncle Zhou," he said, "how much road has this bike traveled?"

Uncle Zhou thought for a moment. "I don't know. But it has traveled every road."

The next morning, Uncle Zhou came to the Post Office and parked the bicycle at the entrance. Xiao Zhao saw him pushing the bike in and was stunned for a moment.

"Uncle Zhou, not riding today?"

Uncle Zhou shook his head. "Not riding anymore."

He untied the canvas bag from the back rack and slung it over his shoulder. The bag was very heavy, weighing down his shoulders.

He shouldered the bag, pushed open the door, and walked into the sunlight.

Xiao Zhao chased after him. "Uncle Zhou, you're walking there?"

Uncle Zhou nodded. "Walking there."

Xiao Zhao watched him. A sixty-seven-year-old man, carrying a large canvas bag, walking on this winding road.

He watched for a long time, then ran back, got on his own bicycle, and chased after him.

"Uncle Zhou, I'll take you."

Uncle Zhou shook his head. "No need. I can walk by myself."

Xiao Zhao didn't go back. He pushed his bike and walked beside Uncle Zhou. The two of them walked very slowly, but very steadily.

The first stop was Millfield. When they arrived, the sun had just come out. Eric was waiting at the entrance of the town and was stunned for a moment when he saw Uncle Zhou walking over with the bag on his back.

"Uncle Zhou, where is the bike?"

Uncle Zhou said: "Not riding it anymore."

Eric looked at his feet. The soles of his shoes were worn through, revealing the socks inside. He looked for a long time, then squatted down and tied Uncle Zhou's shoelaces tight.

"The road is long," he said, "if the shoelaces are loose, it's easy to trip."

Uncle Zhou nodded. He shouldered the bag and continued walking forward. Eric followed and walked beside him.

Three people walking on the road. The road was winding and stretched into the distance. The wind blew over, messing up their hair. They walked very slowly, but very steadily.

When they reached Greenfield, Martha was playing the guitar at the entrance.

Seeing them walk over, she put down the guitar and stood up.

She didn't speak, but turned and walked into the house, brought out a glass of water, and handed it to Uncle Zhou.

Uncle Zhou took it and took a sip. The water was very cool and sweet.

"Thank you," he said.

Martha shook her head. "I should be thanking you."

She stood at the entrance, watching them walk away. The wind blew, causing the guitar strings in her hand to make a sound. It was a dull thud, not pleasant to hear. But she felt that someone was listening.

By the time they reached Xinfeng Town, the sun was already setting. George was waiting for them at the town entrance. Seeing Uncle Zhou walking over with the bag, he didn't speak, but walked to his side and took the canvas bag from his shoulder.

The bag was very heavy, weighing down his shoulders. But he didn't put it down, and instead carried it, walking beside Uncle Zhou.

Four people walking on the road. The road was winding and stretched into the distance. The wind blew over, messing up their hair. They walked very slowly, but very steadily.

Edna was standing at the church entrance, holding a letter. She walked up to Uncle Zhou and handed him the letter.

"Uncle Zhou, this letter is addressed to you."

Uncle Zhou took it. On the envelope, it was written "To Uncle Zhou," the handwriting was crooked, like a child who had just learned to write. He opened it, and inside there was only one sheet of paper, with only a few lines on it:

"Uncle Zhou, you have delivered letters for forty years. Now you are no longer riding, but the road is still there. Those letters are still there. We are still here too. Thank you. Thank you for your bike. Thank you for your road."

Uncle Zhou stared at those lines for a long time. He folded the letter and put it into his pocket. In that pocket, there were already several letters. He touched them, and the corners of his mouth curled up.

That night, Uncle Zhou sat at the church entrance, looking at the bicycle. The bike was very old; the paint had peeled off, the chain was rusty, the tires were flat, and the brake cable was broken. But it stood there, together with those letters. In front of the wall, under the moonlight.

George walked over and squatted beside him. "Uncle Zhou, what do you plan to do with this bike?"

Uncle Zhou thought for a moment. "Keep it."

George asked: "Leave it here?"

Uncle Zhou nodded. "Leave it here. Together with those letters."

George stood up and walked to the front of the bike. He squatted down, propped up the bike, reconnected the chain, inflated the tires, and reconnected the brake cable.

He repaired it very slowly, checking every part for a long time. After finishing, he stood up and looked at the bike.

The bike was still old, the paint was still peeled, and there was still rust. But it could be ridden.

He turned around and looked at Uncle Zhou. "Uncle Zhou, it's fixed."

Uncle Zhou stood up and walked to the front of the bike. He touched the handlebars; the rubber grips had long since worn away, revealing the iron pipes inside. He touched the seat; the leather surface was cracked, revealing the sponge inside.

He touched the chain; the newly applied oil was shiny.

He got on and pedaled once. The chain made a sound, creaking just like before.

He smiled.

He rode the bike and circled the church entrance once. The wind blew past his ears, and the trees on both sides of the road rustled. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. He rode to the front of the wall and stopped. The letters on the wall were still there, and those drawings were still there. He looked at them for a long time. Then he turned around, rode to the entrance, and stopped.

George stood at the entrance, watching him. "Uncle Zhou, still riding?"

Uncle Zhou thought for a moment. "Riding. But riding slowly. Riding slowly."

The next morning, Uncle Zhou set off again. The bicycle creaked, and the canvas bag on the back rack was packed full. He rode very slowly, but very steadily.

The sun rose from the east, shining on him, and his shadow was stretched very long. He rode through Millfield, delivering letters to Eric. Rode through Greenfield, delivering letters to Martha. Rode to Xinfeng Town, and posted the letters on the wall.

Every time he reached a place, someone would ask him: "Uncle Zhou, is the bike fixed?" He nodded. "Fixed."

They would ask again: "Still riding?" He smiled. "Riding. Riding slowly."

He rode to the church entrance and stopped, pushed the door open, went in, and stood in front of the wall.

There were a few more letters on the wall, and those drawings were still there.

He looked for a long time, then turned around, pushed open the door, and walked into the morning light.

The bicycle was still creaking at the entrance; he got on and slowly rode forward. The road wound and stretched into the distance, and the wind blew over, messing up his hair. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. He thought about the bike, having ridden it for forty years, from new to old, from fast to slow.

Now it was fixed, but it was still old. The paint had peeled, there was rust, and the rubber grips were worn away.

But he felt it was more beautiful than a new one.

Because the peeled paint was the road.

The rust was the wind.

The worn-away parts were his hands holding the handlebars.

He touched the letters in his pocket; they were still there. He smiled and continued to ride forward. In the distance, there were also people writing letters, people reading them, and people waiting. And he, riding that old bike, moved slowly along.

The road was long, but he was not in a rush. Riding slowly, he would always get there.

[Chapter 93 End]