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A forest fire was making its way along the tinderbox ridges above them, flaring andshimmering against the overcast like the northern lights. Cold as it was, he stood there along time. The color of it moved something in him long forgotten.(from The Roadby Cormac McCarthy)ACTIVITY III-B READ ME.Read the text below with understanding and appreciation.After reading the text, answer the table on the next page.The Urban CyclistDavid HoodIt’s a sweltering summer day in the city. You’ve decided to embrace cycling, make itpart of your exercise regimen. So you’re attired in a blue helmet, dark sunglasses, yellowjersey, black shorts, light-weight cycling shoes, ready to ride for the first time.Sitting on the hard seat, gripping the handle bars, pressing the peddles, balancing themountain bike, as if a man on a high-wire, you begin three hours of cycling.One hour into the ride, your body’s heated up like a furnace. You begin perspiring likeyou’re sitting in a sauna. You take a few sips of bottled water, peddle onward.For a couple of miles, you cycle quickly on a flat stretch of street, close to the curb,past rows of parked cars, past condos sprouting like dandelions, past house of all shapes andsizes, past the occasional park with a playground, past a few bus stops, a gas station.Like someone navigating a minefield, you peer in all directions, looking for potentialhazards— discarded pop cans, sewer grates, jay walking pedestrians, pot holes, a motoristdrifting too close, as if distracted, perhaps texting on a smartphone.You cycle past a row of parked cars. Someone who’s not paying attention, opens theircar door, blocking your path. You quickly look back, detect empty space, steer the handle barsleft, veering your bike away from danger.As you cycle, you observe an endless number of trucks, buses, cars, occasionalmotorcycle whizzing past, like they’re in a rush to some place important. Sometimes you passanother cyclist peddling slowly, like someone on a leisurely stroll.A mile up the street, you zigzag between two rows of cars stopped at a red light. When thelight turns green, the cars accelerate as if beginning a race. You smell the stench of exhaust,cough a few times, then balance the bike, sit on the seat, begin to peddle for another mile,when you’re greeted by a steep hill.Rather than dismount, walk your bike to the top, like you’ve given up, you gear downinto low, peddle slowly, climbing the hill without stopping. Yet, you still feel as if you’re carryinga backpack of fifty pounds.At the top of the hill, you stop to catch your breath, look back, tell yourself ―I’veclimbed to the tip of a mountain.Then you re-balance your bike, sit on the seat, press on the‖peddles, descend the steep hill, feeling a cool breeze blowing in your face, as if sitting on aswift-flying sailboat, catching the wind.