The chestnut tree is old and sick and may have to be felled. But for now, it still stands, towering over the garden. Slowly, like buds unfolding, the stories of the people who gaze upon the tree emerge.
On my bike Im here and somewhere else at the same time. The place of movement is the inbetween, the inbetween is where thinking takes place: about the fleeting now, family and the perfect bike.
