[Intro — tight bassline, clipped drums, dry spoken voice] The first one raised his hand. So I raised mine. Two fingers from the bar. That seemed reasonable. [Verse 1 — rhythmic spoken delivery] Road bike. Blue jersey. Quiet wheels. Small lift. Left hand. Enough to say: I saw you. Not enough to change the line. Then another one came. Older man. Flat pedals. Serious face. I nodded. He nodded. Still fine. [Spoken Hook — no singing] One hand for the handlebar. One hand for society. Sometimes only two fingers. No words. No crash. [Verse 2 — bassline tighter] By the canal I made a system. Then corrected it immediately. Road bike: usually. Children: if they look first. Elderly lady: small smile, two fingers. Crowded path: nothing. Too many people make kindness unsafe. E-bike: case by case. Scooter: no. Unless eye contact has already happened. That changes things. [Turn — muted guitar chops, short drum break] Then came a group. Six riders. Maybe seven. The first one waved. The second one did not. The third one looked away. The fourth one said morning. I had already spent my good morning on a man with panniers. [Spoken Hook — slightly tighter] One hand for the handlebar. One hand for society. Sometimes only two fingers. No words. Almost no crash. [Verse 3 — groove drops lower] On the road the rules changed. Car behind. Narrow shoulder. Bad surface. A greeting is not worth a front wheel. Sometimes I saw the person. Sometimes I saw the situation first. Wind. Curve. Dog leash. Someone looking down. There are greetings that arrive as interruptions. I kept mine inside the hand. [Break — bass alone, clipped percussion returns] Then came the hard one. Old steel frame. No helmet. Perfect cadence. Could be a cyclist. Could be a man going to buy bread. Too late to decide. I raised two fingers. He raised one eyebrow. The system lost a wheel. [Verse 5 — groove loosens] After that I stopped classifying. For almost thirty seconds. A child rang a bell. I smiled first. Too early. His mother smiled back. A woman on a city bike kept her eyes forward. I let that one pass. Not every kindness needs delivery. [Final Hook — dry, spoken, no lift] One hand for the handlebar. One hand for society. Sometimes only two fingers. No words. No crash. [Outro — bassline fades, dry voice close] Now I keep my hand half-raised in case another cyclist appears. Not waving. Not resting. Available.
