When I ride fast, when the days in the hot valley grow long until they put themselves as spent embers, when water doesn't work because it's hot like tea, god has given me long roads because I have no speed. He has given me hands to change tires in the dark, legs to climb roads when the women tell me the top of the mountain is way to far away and too high. God gave me a bicycle to get to the next town, just as he gave old widows black dresses knees and lips to kiss and climb stairs to mark each day their love died from their hair, their youth, those moments they touched and felt alone, that day, in the field, off the road, the wind and sun and soil meant everything because for that one time it did not matter. On Sunday god rode with me, and in Coimbra we were lost. We stayed with the Dutch and we touched dry cobbles. We saw the sea and the cobbles and made it north to Braga. There we drank brandy with the ladies. We did not make it to Braganca or the far north east. He told me to return there and lose my bearings. The mountains are dry there, and no one is around anymore. I can lay my tent and see the west.