Cycling along the Malecon

HT08

 

Photo Feature by Andrew Smith*

HAVANA TIMES — As a cyclist I am an active participant, I do not compete, but suppose I may be termed a ‘sporting cyclist’ as opposed to a ‘sportsman’. Cycling is a broad church, it crosses international and functional boundaries, music shares similar qualities. Like music, I believe that the existential qualities of cycling lead to a sense of community rooted in the unconscious. It was this sense of community that I felt as I photographed the riders gracefully working their way around the Malecón loop that bright yet hazy morning.

HT10

 

Of all the things i saw and felt
in this beguiling crumbling city
it was the Betjemanesque reality
of the criterium
that finally broke through

the hustle, the hassle,
the jineteros and jineteras,
bad sewers, hot sun,
heavy rain, rumba,
baby milk scam,

restuffed mattresses,
black beans, Son,
‘Hola my fren’ where you from?’
the revolución, bad bins,
taxis, police,
Che, Raul,
Fidel, José Marti.

parasols, blue fumes,
sweat running down my back,
restored grandeur, fake cigars,
books, the future,
sharp choking urine blast,

make do and mend,
cubaton, slick hair,
walking, waiting,
sitting on steps,
dust and brass,
out shooting the breeze.

(*) Guest photographer.

Photo captions from a text by Bill Strickland http://trubs.com

 

Click on the thumbnails below to view all the photos in this gallery. On your PC or laptop, you can use the directional arrows on the keyboard to move within the gallery. On cell phones use the keys on the screen.

Though it seems so almost always from the inside
and at least sometimes from out,
there is no sense saying a race makes no sense.
Every race makes its own sense,
every time from uncertainty producing that what could not have been any other way.
What makes no sense in any sense is to call a race a race because every race is races,
a multitude if not an infinity of versions.
Yes, as anyone could surmise my race is not the same as yours
but the middle of my race was not the same as the start and,
what\'s more, the middle that happened as it happened is not the middle that happened once the race ends
and I begin to recall and reflect and retell,
and not the middle that will have happened a day later and a week and a season and a lifetime later.
There are moments of my middle that mattered to you and not to me,
and what you did in those instants mattered to a racer who you never knew was there, just off your wheel
and who never knew why you were racing then as you did.
I saw the break was going before it went,
and I jumped and thought I had read the race
when at most I had read not even a sentence
but maybe just managed to somehow understand where a comma was needed.
You never knew how I knew about even that little bit of punctuation.
You knew only that I knew.

One thought on “Cycling along the Malecon”

  • Great article – where else would you find such empty roads?!

Comments are closed.