The Tunnel

One thing that happened to me between when I published this photo of the Chaberton and when I published this other photo of the Chaberton is that I bought a bicycle. That is: I already had a bicycle. Better: except for brief, circumstantial periods, I have always had a bicycle.

I cycle through the city, I go on errands. When I have to walk, I usually always take the bicycle because cycling is better. The bicycle is a manifesto.

Anyway.

The bike I bought between the two photographs is one of those that you ride on asphalt, but also in the woods, you even ride it in the mountains if you want. And so, first within the confines of a pandemic and its constraints of not going out of the ordinary, then widening the field a little at a time, in the mountains with the bike I went up there for real.

Like here: there's a tunnel, halfway up the mountainside, that you almost don't notice as you come up through it. It rains from the ceiling, in this tunnel. In some places the bottom is flooded and more than pedalling you'd have to paddle a bit. There is no light, in certain tunnels: it's something you don't usually notice in a car. It's longer than you expect. But this tunnel is really dark. And curved: so, when you're halfway through, you can't see the exit and all around it is just darkness and the sounds of bicycles, freewheels, dripping water and reverberating sounds.