a dirt track which, at that time of night, was more like a living, breathing pit of darkness, a tunnel that echoed with deathly screeches and the croaks of cicadas and enormous toads hiding in the grass, a track that Polo would turn into without a second thought, without braking at all, befuddled by his thirst and pounding head, squinting from the sweat and insects in his face, pedaling furiously and with drunken abandon and placing all his trust in his muscle memory, which seemed to remember the places where the track grew narrow or gnarled with tree roots after all those years spent cycling
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