In the beginning Malcolm found riding around Paris a harrowing, a genuinely frightening activity. It was not that the drivers wished to hit cyclists, as has been stated elsewhere, but it couldn’t be said they were much concerned by the thought of a collision, either. It took Malcolm several days before he was comfortable traveling on primary roads; his courage grew in phases. Eventually he found himself circling the Bastille amid dense, anarchic traffic, left arm jutting out defensively as the cars and mopeds swarmed and honked at him, and the taxi drivers cursed him with lusty gusto, but
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