They’re supposed to be following his lead.

It’s not a reminder, or a suggestion, or even a necessity. It is simply a fact: when he looks in front of him, there is nothing there but possibility. Whatever path they are taking, to whichever destination is in mind, they will not reach it without him reaching there first.

That’s not to say that he isn’t capable of taking direction. Every move he makes is handled by more dexterous opinions, and he prefers it that way. Strategy and planning are admittedly not his forte, but he’ll make decisions where he can.

They’ll goad him turn left , and he’ll lean into the curve to make the ride more fun. They’ll direct him through the grass , and he’ll gamely absorb the shock of rocks and twigs so that the frame and the seat don’t have to. These are the things he can do.

So he does. Over and over, round and round.

There is a pressure under his skin he can’t live without, but he also wonders what it would feel like to release it, slowly and over time. If he collapses into nothing but flesh and bone, is that rest? Is it possible to stay as full as he is while remaining still? And if so, is it meaningful?

He doesn’t know, but that’s okay. He will continue moving forward, as he always does.

As are all things, it was really a matter of chance.

In the factory, there are no such things as front or back. They were produced en masse for a single function. They were both equally capable of blazing a trail, absorbing the shock, reaching that ever-moving target in the distance. He could have been installed in front, and the QA employees would have ascertained no difference.

But when the rubber meets the road, he’s in the back.

The comparison is almost not even worth mentioning. The other has so much to focus on in order to ensure they maintain their course. There is even a patience required to being in front, one he doesn’t have on account of being entirely filled with hot air.

Meanwhile, nothing is expected of him but to retrace the route set for him, to mirror the other’s motions as perfectly as possible. His biggest function is supporting the weight, but the burden ? That’s all up front. He has it so easy.

He’ll never be able to convey the gratitude for that or the overwhelming respect he feels to his partner in motion—his better half—not because he cannot try but because the other cannot notice.

They were designed to never look backwards.

In their business, there isn’t much use in paying attention to anything behind you anyway; he could not blame the front for never acknowledging him. If their roles were reversed, he would have done the same. In fact, if their roles were reversed, he isn’t sure that they’d have made it as far as they have to begin with.

This distance between them is fixed, something he cannot surpass. He was never meant to. The only link they share is a single chain, one the other can’t even see but must constantly feel in order to tug them all along. Does the front resent them at all? Resent him ? 

He holds onto the hope that one day—when they’re retired, when there is no need to continue moving forward—he will have his chance. Even if by then they are nothing but rusted scraps, forgotten and left over, he will be clear with his feelings. No thought will go unspoken. Though they could not retread the roads, perhaps they can still reflect on where they have been. Until then, he will continue looking forward. All he can do is watch.

So he does. Over and over, round and round.