“To go to the Olympics.” If he made it to the Olympics, it would be a great victory for his homeland, the poor, and a testament to his determination.

“Have you competed outside the Honduras?”

“I want too, but it is difficult to find money to do that.”

The next morning, Melvin decided to escort us for a portion of our journey. As he darted ahead of me, I silently cheered him on. I swore that when I got home, I would find a sponsor to help him. Still, sponsor or no sponsor, I knew he would find the determination to compete and win. I took that inspiration inside, and I resolved to complete my journey.

**********

I met a man in the Honduras, a one armed Canadian cyclist, in the foothills the day after I left Melvin’s home with Jans and Sven. Jans and Sven carried little equipment in their bags, so with their light weight, they took off. I meandered down the road, and slowly pedaled through the hot sunlight of the mid morning. Suddenly, I heard a man yelling at me in English.

“Hey! Hey you! Hey! Stop!”

I looked at him in surprise and stopped my bike as he ran and jumped over the barbed wire. He was half naked except for his bicycle shorts, lean, and burnt like a lobster. He had a big white patch of sunblock on his nose, and dark sunglasses, as well as short cropped, sun burnt, blond hair.

“Who are you?” I said in surprise. “I’m a cyclist, like you. I left my gear up there.” He said as he pointed to a tent and a colorful, rainbow colored, Mayan hammock next to his bike.

“Oh. What are you doing up there?”

“The same thing you probably do when you need to piss and camp at night, eh?”

“Oh, yeah, You’re from Canada, aren’t you?” I asked noticing his accent.

“Yup, Toronto, say, you look Canadian. Are you from the Oganagan Valley, or Vancouver?”

“Uh, no... what makes you think that?”

“Cause you look like one, and you’re a lot nicer and friendlier than Americans. That and your accent is very Canadian.” "