After securing our bikes, we decided to head out and explore Brugge for a bit. Less than half a mile from our hotel we saw a sign for Arno's bike shop. "Let's check it out!"
Arno's was more than a bike rental shop. It was a little place for cyclists to gather, drink coffee, chat and browse through a variety of cycling memorabilia.
I found this cute sign and had to send a picture to my sister who has been chronically late for the majority of her life!
When I asked the young man who was working there if he was Arno, the sadness in his face told a different story. Lando was the young man's name and Arno was his older brother. Arno died last year at the young age of 29. My heart quickly went out to Lando as I recalled my own loss of Rod when he was just 31.
Lando showed us around and explained that they just wanted a place to enjoy talking about bikes and encourage others to ride. Everything was for sale and the plan is to always have a fresh inventory. We ended up spending about two hours in the shop, learning about the cycling culture in Belgium and getting tips for our own riding adventures.
We didn't learn the details of Arno's passing, but the wound was still
raw for this family. On the wall was a poem written by Arno and Lando's
father:
I thought this was so beautiful I wanted to put the full text here:
Arno's journey
Along the roads where the morning dew trembles on the grass,
a silent cyclist moves along with dust on his shoes;
his hands open to the oncoming wind.
Arno, who found the evening far too early.
wakes above him-invisible yet so close.
His breath silent as his voice fills the space between the leaves.
He knows the curves of the road, the potholes in the asphalt.
And then the rain falls suddenly, like a memory.
He was a traveler once, seeking distant places,
chasing the stars he felt in his breast.
But now Arno is a whisper in the reeds,
the shade that cools when the sun too fiercely burns the flesh.
Your back feels his hand pushing oh so gently when your soul loses courage,
the shade that cools when the sun too fiercely burns the flesh.
Your back feels his hand pushing oh so gently when your soul loses courage,
and your tired legs crave relief.
Sometimes, when the sun sets and the sky turns to copper,
Sometimes, when the sun sets and the sky turns to copper,
and the whole world
holds its breath for a moment,
the cyclist feels the hand that is no
hand yet feels very real;
a presence like a memory, warm and comforting.
He does not know why his heart feels lighter,
a presence like a memory, warm and comforting.
He does not know why his heart feels lighter,
why the road is suddenly less lonely.
Somewhere above the endless whirring of the tyres
and the rhythm of his breathing, Arno is watching.
He died too soon and is gone to somewhere over the horizon,
He died too soon and is gone to somewhere over the horizon,
traveling
beyond the sky to the place where the road and light are one.
Translation by Frans Mantel
Editing by Sophie Shearer
Translation by Frans Mantel
Editing by Sophie Shearer
Our time spent at Arno's was an unexpected pause. In a world that is often just too busy, I hope our kindness to Lando will be remembered.
