As a child I had a bike a little 'fuck. Graziella.
instead All my friends had the moto-cross with long saddle, shock absorbers and transmission. The long saddle
gave him a safe haven, the easy-rider. Pedaled comfortable, lulled by the shock. Occasionally they could even move up a gear.
Next to them, with my Graziella, I looked like a poor bastard. I missed only the wicker basket quilted. They were the king of dirt I get by with my bike that sounded off every scrap metal.
I was not the most unfortunate of all. A bike I succeed. I was also allowed to use it out of the yard. But, damn, I was the entry level of the lucky ones. The lucky base. I wanted to cross the bike with the long saddle, shock absorbers and transmission. I wanted blue. In my head I had a very light film of what I needed.
Today I think of that episode. I remember that even though torn by the desire of a blue cross bike, I with Graziella, also red, I enjoyed it.
I removed the wings, and the basket to make it more beautiful.
I learned to surge. I had changed the seat.
I went there in the most unlikely, and I used a lot, probably because it was not for me half worthy of veneration. It was a basic bike, suitable for a successful base.
Holy shit, if he returned the child on a bicycle with the codpiece court many years ago, I would have my Graziella. For me it was perfect. I think if I had the bike I would not have enjoyed cross blue suit. I was afraid of ruining it. I would have used too sparingly.
From this insight comes the title of my post.
100, or perfection. 100%.
Tracking the 100 is a pulse incorrectly. E 'distorted.
Actually 80 is 100.
