中文简体
The morning light had not yet completely dispelled the chill of the Gobi, The bicycle of the father and son from Henan in the hotel courtyard has vanished without a trace. When we met last night, The young father was tightening the loose axle with his fingers smeared with chicken fat, The eleven-year-old son stood on tiptoe and stuffed clothes into the camel bag - Two bulging pouches are like stubborn hills, Press on both sides of the rear frame. They set off from Zhengzhou, I have only ridden as far as Kaifeng, At this moment, one has to traverse two thousand miles of sand and wind. The leash tied around father's waist turned white in the morning light, That is insurance prepared to deal with unrepaired brakes.
When we set off, The Gobi Desert is forging the scorching sun into a soldering iron. Seventy kilometers might just be a warm-up for veteran riders, But the sand marks left by the traction rope, The dull thud made by the hump during the jolting, All are recounting the hardships of this journey. At noon, The shadows cast by the bridge piers of the expressway have become a lifeline. The watermelons sent by the melon farmers still carried the coolness of the cellar, The sweetness of the sandy pulp melting on the tip of the tongue, It temporarily diluted the burnt smell of the tires rubbing against the hot sand and gravel.
At three o 'clock in the afternoon, Jinghe County Town was like a treasure chest that had suddenly opened. The homestay of a couple from Jiangsu is hidden at the end of an alley, When the iron gate was pushed open, The fragrance of the vegetable garden wafted towards me. The tomato rack is like a line of lanterns, The green pepper trees are spewing green flames, Amid the host's shout for us to pick whatever we want, The salt stains on the cycling suit have all turned into MEDALS. The tomatoes I picked are heavy in my palm, The moment when the thin skin is bitten through, The juice splashed onto the sun-dried and peeling lips - This is the most vivid flavor I have tasted in the past twenty days.
While repairing a bicycle in the twilight, The shadow of the grape trellis gradually elongated. Suddenly, I thought of that father and son, At this moment, they are probably curled up under the eaves of some gas station, Dry the clothes soaked with sweat with body temperature. Cycling has never been a singular noun: Some people come to conquer data, Some people set out to measure family affection; The handlebars are tied with different obsessions, The spokes, however, rotate with a similar yearning. When the moonlight begins to silver our ruts, All the stories of carrying heavy loads and light luggage, It will eventually converge into a new chapter at the next stop.