This is the story of a fighter. A man who lived his life fighting, spent his days fighting, and his career fighting. A cyclist, a fighter on the bike, and even more so off of it. This is the story of the man who lived, fought, won, lost, died.
Enjoy
Spoiler
No offence caused for anything in the following pages, or, anything I say etc etc. I had no intention of offending but this does touch on some rather 'topical' areas
No offence caused for anything in the following pages, or, anything I say etc etc. I had no intention of offending but this does touch on some rather 'topical' areas
Can't wait to see what is going to happen here but Good Luck anyway
Growing up on a potato farm is not seen by many as a stimulating childhood, but he was lucky not to be any worse off. You may be wondering how he ever became a cyclist, indeed, he seemed likely to continue the family business, and Peru is not a top cycling country by any means. In fact, in his early years, cycling was not seen by Esteban as a sport at all. He had a bike, and used it to make covering the ground of the farm a bit quicker, sine they lacked most technology. He was a decent cyclist, out of necessity rather than any real skill or drive, but nothing special, at least at this point.
Esteban's father was a good man, mostly. He was however, struggling to support a wife and son on a low income, and, in those days, that could mean falling in with the wrong sort of crowd. Bad things happen to good people, and soon he wasn't so much falling in, as falling out. Even so, no signs were shown to his family, they still lived a far from perfect, but peaceful life, just outside the city.
All that was about to change, on the Day the Dragons Came. The dragons were a Peruvian Drug cartel, (after all the country is the 2nd highest producer of cocaine). They almost ruled over Northern Peru, corruption was rife, and they had free rein. To this day it has never been revealed why they were after Mr Mosrambor, nor does it seem likely to ever be revealed.
That day, as every day, Esteban was out in the fields, in the late evening, part working, but also watching the sun set over the forests and mountains. Men were pouring towards the house, waiting for their chance, for their unholy, inhuman deed.
Esteban mounted his bike, and began the ride home.
It was just like any ride home, peddling aimlessly between the fields, stopping from time to time to look around him, after all, it is a beautiful landscape. In the end it was a good thing he did stop, it might just have made the difference to what did happen that day.
As anyone who grew up in an area dominated by crime would be, Esteban was a naturally inquisitive and suspicious boy. As he got off his bike he heard voices. Gruff, intimidating, scary, nothing like what he was used to. So he approached cautiously, sneaking round the corner of a fence, through the bushes, till he could see, and hear clearly.
All he could really see was 4 huge men, big, and more importantly armed. Of course, as a young boy, Esteban didn't understand what was going on, but he understood well enough it was a good idea to stay hidden. Further inspection revealed two more people, smaller, tied up, and kneeling on the mud. Could they be? No, surely not.
Then there were more men, of the first kind. Something about valuables, searching the house. His breath became shorter, sharper, his heart rate quicker and more irregular. He was dizzy, nauseous, overcome by fear. He stuck his arm out, and came to rest, his back to the wall, sobbing, afraid, and powerless.
The noises were overcoming him, fear spread through his body like a toxin, paralysing him, ensnaring him. Esteban was oblivious to the world, and utterly defenceless. Two shots. He was awoken from his trance. His breathing steadied, his heart slowed, and his fear was replaced by anger.
The men were still there. They had taken everything, not just his home, his possessions, but his parents. His anger was matched only by his fear, wondering what he could do, but it was too late. These men may have taken enough for one day, but they were greedy. They'd want more, the crops, the fields, everything. He had to run.
Or, in this case ride. He scampered back through the bushes, mounted his bike, and rode. Not in any particular direction, but away. And so the fighter fled his home, his life, and everything he had once been, and began a new life.
Thanks for the kind comments
I have made a signature/logo for the story. Maybe it is a bit big, so I will probably try and shrink it down later so it is less clunky.
A small boy alone is not a thing which normally ends well. With intelligence, cunning and a good few other things though, it is possible for someone to survive all alone, if not in great condition of living! Esteban was an innocent young boy, but what he had seen transformed him, it allowed him to survive, and grow ever more consumed by his anger.
Life on the run is not pleasant, even if you have a purpose, a destination as such. Esteban didn't have that, and so he rode aimlessly, without pausing, or thinking, or admiring. He rode, all day. When he needed food, he would take it, be that from a farm, a bush, or a town. There was no guilt, no morals, just the need to survive. And he did survive, in the wilderness, all alone, and slowly changed, from a boy, to a fighter.
