Forbidden Ride
It was a Sunday in the late 1970s, a dry, golden afternoon over the fields of San Vicente del Maipo. I had just graduated from Holy Cross Academy a few weeks earlier, and having lived all my life on my father’s property, I knew every corner of the place. The vineyards glimmered under the sun, and the only sound was the faint creak of the irrigation pumps in the distance.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgawr38GS07
Around midday, the silence broke: a heavy, irregular rumble climbed the dirt road, followed by a blast of horn. I looked out and saw a white Ford pickup, old but defiant, its engine coughing smoke. The man behind the wheel grinned even before the truck stopped.
Fernando Pereira.
He jumped out, a bag on his shoulder, the same fire in his eyes that had made teachers despair and friends adore him. In the pickup bed were two identical Motomel motorcycles—one for him, one for me.
“Compadre!” he shouted, sliding to a halt in the dust. “Get ready. Today we race—one-on-one through the Maipo hills. No crowds, no mercy.”
I laughed despite myself. “You’re insane.”
“That’s why you like me,” he shot back, flashing that unstoppable smile. “This will be a wild ride.”
His enthusiasm was contagious, but I knew the real obstacle wasn’t the canyon or the bikes—it was my father.
“Wait here,” I told him. “Let me talk to him first.”
Inside, the estate smelled of coffee and polish. My father sat at his desk with the Mercurio folded at his elbow, every crease exact. His uniform jacket hung over the chair. He didn’t look up as I entered.
“Dad,” I began cautiously, “a friend came by. He brought an extra bike. We want to ride a bit of motocross in the hills.”
He turned a page slowly. “Who’s this friend?”
“Fernando Pereira.”
“Full name.”
The words tightened in my throat. “Fernando Pereira Pereira.”
The page froze. My father set the paper down and met my eyes. No expression, but something hardened behind them. After a long pause he said quietly: “Bring him here.”
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The Confrontation49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSs9wj2ggq0
Outside, Fernando was tightening straps on one of the bikes, humming a rock riff under his breath.
“He wants to see you,” I said.
Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Now?”
“He insists.”
Brushing the dust off his jeans, he straightened up and followed me inside. My father stayed seated, simply gesturing toward the chair opposite, and began without ceremony.
“I don’t doubt my son’s skill,” he said flatly. “What troubles me is that doubled surname of yours—Pereira Pereira. It carries the silence of a missing father, and the whisper of a mother who had no other name to give. That absence follows you, Fernando, and I don’t want it following my son.”
Fernando’s jaw tightened. “With respect, sir, I didn’t choose my name. I’m not here to bring shame or trouble. I just came to race—a simple ride, nothing more.”
Raúl studied him, expression unchanging. “Perhaps. But names carry history whether we choose them or not. And history leaves shadows. My answer remains no.”
A long silence filled the room. Then Fernando nodded stiffly, turned, and left without another word.
By the time I followed him outside, he was already in the truck, the engine snarling.
“Cowardly old man,” he spat. “Arrogant and classist, trapped in his prejudices and his clownish sense of honor… and now he wants to drag you down with him too.”
He spat into the dust, slammed the door, and roared off, leaving only a cloud behind.
That image stayed with me—the spinning wheels, the red dust, the sting of words that weren’t meant for me, yet clung like smoke.
The Argument49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVZEsBFQ08i
That night I couldn’t stay still. The walls of the house felt too tight, the silence too loud. I found my father in his study, still at his desk, reading under the steady light of his brass lamp. The same paper lay folded beside him, half-finished coffee cooling near his hand.
“Dad, I don’t understand,” I began, standing in the doorway. “What does his name have to do with riding bikes? It was just motocross, not marriage.”
He looked up slowly, one eyebrow lifting. “Watch your tone,” he snapped. “That boy doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Because of a name?” I pressed. “You’ve done this before—remember Teresa? You broke that off because you didn’t like her family, her background… Now it’s Fernando. You don’t see people, you see bloodlines.”
His hand slammed against the desk. “Enough! You don’t understand the world you live in. That boy carries a void—no father, no structure, no guidance. Those are the ones who drag others down.”
“That’s unfair,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level. “You think I can’t choose my own friends?”
He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, the way he did when holding back anger. “I trust you, Roberto,” he said. “But I’ve lived long enough to know that influence is stronger than will. And as long as you live under my roof and carry my name, my decision stands.”
That was the end of it. Or so I believed.
My father’s tone had that finality I’d learned not to challenge. I thought it was just another clash between generations—his pride against my stubbornness. But in truth, that single decision would become the shadow he could never step out of. For the rest of his life, he carried the silent conviction that if he’d let me go as Fernando’s guide, fate could have followed another course.
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Shadows at Breakfast49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFUayRvYAlV
Fernando didn’t give up. Before sundown, he’d loaded both bikes and driven toward the Maipo on his own. I saw the dust of his truck vanish along the road and felt a strange chill, as if the air itself were warning me.
I stayed home that night, pacing. My little transistor radio sat on the bedside table, tuned to Puente Alto’s local station for the weekend soccer match—Colo Colo versus Universidad de Chile. At halftime, the announcer cut briefly to local news.
“A young motorcyclist was found dead earlier this afternoon near the entrance to Las Canteras Miranda. Authorities report the body lying beside a willow tree… cause of the crash still unclear.”
Then came the name—Fernando Pereira Pereira.
The program returned to commercials as if nothing. I turned the radio off and sat in the dark. A deep, immediate void filled the room.
The Next Morning49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzYbTTJ3rEU
At dawn, I came downstairs. The house was still, heavy with the smell of coffee and furniture polish. My father was already at the table, uniform shirt neatly buttoned, the Matutino de Puente Alto folded beside his cup. He didn’t look up when I greeted him.
Without a word, he passed the newspaper across the table. I saw the small column near the bottom: Fatal crash, Maipo Canyon. Victim: Fernando Pereira Pereira, age 18.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
Then quietly, he asked: “When are the services?”
“Wednesday. His mother will hold a short wake at a chapel in Pudahuel. No money for more.”
He nodded, staring at the far wall. “Tell her I’m sorry for her loss. Deeply sorry.”
I didn’t. He did.
Later that afternoon, when the sun dropped low, my father dressed in his full formal uniform—pressed jacket, ribbons aligned, cap square—and rode the bus to Pudahuel himself. In that poor, whitewashed chapel, he shook the hand of Mrs. Teresa Pereira and stood before the coffin longer than anyone else.
When he turned away, I saw something I had never seen before: his hand trembling as he wiped tears from his eyes. It was the first and only time I saw my father cry.
After that day, Fernando’s name was never spoken again.
A Breath That Faded49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkWEG5IF9VU
A year and a half passed. My father’s lungs, hardened by decades of smoke and silence, began surrendering. Emphysema—they called it a slow drowning in air. He refused to go to the military hospital. “A man dies in his house,” he said. So he stayed, tethered to a hiss of oxygen that barely touched his suffering.
My mother became nurse and guardian. I escaped into work at Motorsport Chile—a sanctuary of engines, precision, and noise.
Then, one Friday evening, my mother met me at the door.
“Thank God you’re here, Roberto,” she said softly. “He’s asking for you. Hurry.”
I climbed the stairs. The air in the room smelled faintly of tobacco ghosts and antiseptic. He gestured for me to close the door. I sat beside him.
It took three attempts before I understood his whisper.
“Do I have your forgiveness—for what happened with Fernando?”
The question hovered, fragile as his breath. I wanted to answer, but language deserted me. I stayed silent, taking his hand instead, rough and weightless, until it slackened completely.
Return to Maipo49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD5HSZMrZyI
Weeks slid past in a blur of work and routine. But the valley and its empty roads called to me in a way I couldn’t ignore. One dawn, I pulled my old Honda CB125S from under the shed and set out toward the Maipo Canyon, air cold and sharp in my lungs.
The ride out was familiar—vineyards, scattered eucalyptus, the river twisting silver through dust and stone. The closer I got to Las Canteras Miranda, the heavier the air felt. The spot was unchanged: the same blind curve, the same willow tree, the same deceptive quiet vibrating under the sound of distant trucks.
Two young men were unloading gleaming bikes from a Dodge Li’l Red Express—one BMW, one Kawasaki.
They were laughing, careless, rich-looking, everything Fernando hadn’t been. I pulled over and called out: “Careful with those curves. Oil seeps from the quarry trucks. A friend of mine died here.”
Their laughter faltered. They listened as I explained—briefly—who Fernando Pereira Pereira had been, and how easily arrogance and ignorance turn fatal.
Eventually, they moved their truck farther into the canyon. I watched until they vanished beyond the bend, then turned my bike toward the deeper valleys. The wind rushed around me, filling the silence between what was lost and what remained.
Epilogue49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyyt6m5zynv
Decades have passed. Chile has changed, highways have widened, and the hills of Maipo are busier now—tour buses cutting through the same curves where we once raced without knowing what waited at the end. Yet each time I ride, rarely but still, I feel their ghosts behind me.
My father’s, measured and stern, built on discipline and code. Fernando’s, restless and reckless, burning through every moment as if permanence were a trap. Between them, I carry a silence shaped like both.
That last night, when my father whispered for forgiveness, I believe now he was asking not only for mine. He wanted release—from his own judgment, from the pride that had fenced him off from compassion. In the end, that single choice drew the line between my silence, the warning I never gave, and the fate that followed.
And Fernando—marked by that doubled surname, by the absence it carried—remains the reminder of all that defines and divides us. He is the echo of what pride destroys: the illusion that bloodlines and names can keep danger at bay.
Some nights, when the wind rises from the canyon and the scent of wet dust drifts through the window, I hear the faint rhythm of an engine climbing the hills. In that sound, both voices return—the father’s restraint and the friend’s defiance, each chasing the other through time.
Forgiveness lives somewhere in that distance, I think. Not in words, not in memory. Just in motion—between breathing and silence, between the hum of the bike and the heartbeat that never quite stops remembering.
La Última Curva (Original Spanish Version)
La llegada de Fernando49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwTaGpjoHsU
Era un domingo a fines de la década de 1970, una tarde seca y dorada sobre los campos de San Vicente del Maipo. Yo acababa de graduarme del Colegio Santa Cruz unas semanas antes y, habiendo vivido toda mi vida en la parcela de mi padre, conocía cada rincón del lugar.
Cerca del mediodía, el silencio se quebró: un estruendo pesado e irregular subió por el camino de tierra, seguido de un bocinazo. Vi una camioneta Ford blanca, vieja pero desafiante. El hombre al volante ya sonreía antes de detenerse.
Fernando Pereira.
Saltó con la misma energía que hacía desesperar a profesores y que sus amigos adoraban. En la caja de la pickup había dos motocicletas Motomel idénticas: una para él, otra para mí.
—¡Compadre! —gritó, deteniéndose en el polvo—. Prepárate. Hoy corremos, uno a uno, por los cerros del Maipo. Sin público, sin piedad.
Reí a pesar de mí.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRmMV1Nwqjf
—Estás loco.
—Por eso te caigo bien —respondió, destellando esa sonrisa incontenible—. Será el desqueve.
Su entusiasmo era contagioso, pero sabía que el verdadero obstáculo no era el cañón, sino mi padre.
—Espera aquí —le dije—. Déjame hablar con él primero.
Adentro, la casa olía a café y cera. Mi padre estaba en su escritorio con el Mercurio a un lado, cada pliegue exacto. Su chaqueta de uniforme colgaba sobre la silla.
—Papá —empecé con cautela—. Un amigo vino. Trajo una moto extra. Queremos hacer un poco de motocross en los cerros.
Lentamente, pasó una página.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuaqCp3Sije
—¿Quién es este amigo?
—Fernando Pereira.
—El nombre completo.
Las palabras se tensaron en mi garganta.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc6pWM7WARA
—Fernando Pereira Pereira.
La página se congeló. Mi padre dejó el periódico y me miró. Tras una larga pausa, dijo en voz baja:49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0S5pjzUAWk
—Tráelo. Quiero verlo.
La Confrontación49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCZN7FZEjGP
Afuera, Fernando tensaba correas. Le dije que mi padre insistía en verlo. Se enderezó y entramos. Mi padre no se levantó; simplemente le indicó una silla y comenzó sin ceremonia.
—No dudo de la habilidad de mi hijo —dijo con firmeza—. Lo que me preocupa es ese apellido doble: Pereira Pereira. Conlleva el silencio de un padre ausente y el susurro de una madre que no tuvo otro nombre que darle. Esa carencia te sigue, Fernando, y no quiero que lo siga a mi hijo.
La mandíbula de Fernando se tensó.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHAWB4XRFtI
—Con todo respeto, coronel, yo no elegí mi nombre. Solo vengo a correr, un simple paseo, nada más.
Raúl lo estudió.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5SuhaThus0
—Quizás. Pero los nombres arrastran historia, los elijamos o no. La historia deja sombras. Mi respuesta sigue siendo no.
Un largo silencio llenó la sala. Fernando asintió, rígido, se dio media vuelta y se fue sin decir una palabra. Cuando lo alcancé afuera, ya estaba en la camioneta.
Me miró fijo.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmjHcBOSdw3
—Viejo de mierda —soltó—. Cobarde y clasista, encerrado en sus prejuicios y en su honor de payaso… y ahora te quiere arrastrar a ti también.
Escupió al polvo, cerró la puerta de golpe y se alejó, dejando solo una nube de polvo.
Esa noche, confronté a mi padre en su estudio.
—Papá, ¿qué tiene que ver su apellido? ¡Era solo motocross, no un matrimonio!
—Baja el tono —espetó—. Ese muchacho no me gusta, punto.
—¿Por un nombre? —insistí—. Con Teresa pasó igual… nunca miraste más allá del apellido, y ahora mi hermana está sola.
Su mano golpeó el escritorio.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe393IjyNiU
—¡Basta! No entiendes el mundo. Ese muchacho arrastra un vacío en su alma, sin estructura ni rumbo. Esos son los que hunden a otros.
—¿Y no confías en mí?
—Confío en ti —dijo—. Pero la influencia es más fuerte que la voluntad. Mientras vivas bajo mi techo, mi decisión es ley.
El tono de mi padre tenía esa firmeza que aprendí a no desafiar. Pensé que era solo otro choque generacional—su orgullo contra mi terquedad. Pero en realidad, esa decisión única se convirtió en la sombra de la que nunca pudo desprenderse. Durante el resto de su vida, llevó consigo la silenciosa convicción de que si me hubiera dejado ser la guía de Fernando, su destino podría haber sido otro.
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La Tragedia en las Canteras49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDADNJ8FYrd
Fernando no se rindió. Antes del anochecer, cargó ambas motos y condujo solo hacia el Maipo. Yo me quedé en casa, inquieto. Tenía mi radio a pilas sintonizada en la emisora local de San Vicente del Maipo para el partido de fútbol —Colo Colo versus Universidad de Chile. En el entretiempo, el locutor interrumpió con noticias locales:
“…un joven motorista fallecido esta tarde cerca de Las Canteras Miranda…”
Las palabras se borraron.
“…encontrado junto a un sauce… accidente bajo condiciones desconocidas…”
Y luego el nombre: Fernando Pereira.
Apagué la radio y me senté en la oscuridad, sintiendo un vacío profundo.
A la mañana siguiente49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡblWfHGsVoA
A la mañana siguiente, mi padre ya estaba en la mesa. Estaba rígido, con la mirada perdida en la pared. El Matutino de San Vicente del Maipo, el diario local que leía con avidez, yacía en una silla. Era obvio que había leído el informe:
—Fatal, Maipo Canyon. Víctima: Fernando Pereira Pereira, 18 años.
Ninguno de los dos habló por un largo minuto.
Luego, con voz apagada, preguntó:49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbRdcnLC4ng
—¿Cuándo son los funerales del muchacho?
—El miércoles. Su madre hará un velorio corto en una capilla de Pudahuel. No tienen dinero para más.
Asintió, mirando la pared.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH4YkFn4e2C
—Dile que lo lamento. Profundamente.
Para mi sorpresa, no tuve que transmitir nada. Mi padre fue él mismo —con su uniforme de gala, el que ya no usaba— a la humilde capilla. Estrechó la mano de la señora Teresa Pereira y se quedó junto al ataúd más que nadie. Cuando se dio la vuelta, lo vi secarse los ojos. Fue la primera y única vez en mi vida que lo vi llorar.
Después de ese día, nunca más nombramos a Fernando.
Un Aliento Que Se Apaga49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNsxXbG4MeP
Pasó un año y medio. Los pulmones de mi padre, endurecidos por décadas de humo, cedían a una enfisema severa. Se negó a ir al hospital. Quiso morir en casa, conectado a un tanque de oxígeno que apenas aliviaba su sufrimiento.
Yo seguí trabajando en Motorsport Chile, mi refugio de motores BMW y Triumph, máquinas de élite que me obligaban a tratar con la gente que mi padre respetaba y que Fernando nunca conoció.
Una tarde de viernes, mi madre me interceptó en la puerta.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqx24lZAufj
—Gracias a Dios que llegaste, Roberto. Ha estado preguntando por ti todo el día. Se le está yendo, date prisa.
Subí las escaleras. El aire en la habitación olía a fantasmas de tabaco. Me senté a su lado.
Tuve que acercar mi oído a sus labios para entender su susurro, después de tres intentos:49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHvqH9UVnEL
—¿Tengo tu perdón, por lo que pasó con Fernando?
La pregunta flotó, frágil como su respiración. Quise responder, pero las palabras me abandonaron. Me quedé en silencio, sosteniendo su mano áspera y sin peso, hasta que se relajó por completo.
Regreso al Maipo49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡja7lSav13n
Semanas después, conduje mi Honda CB125S hacia el cañón. Cuando llegué a Las Canteras Miranda, dos muchachos descargaban motos de lujo —una Kawasaki y una BMW— de una Dodge Li’l Red Express nuevecita. Eran ricos, descuidados, justo todo lo que Fernando no fue.
Me detuve y les advertí:49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLiZKhdiyAf
—Cuidado con esas curvas. El aceite de los camiones de la cantera se mezcla con el agua. Un amigo mío murió aquí.
Les conté, brevemente, quién había sido Fernando Pereira Pereira y cómo la ignorancia del terreno puede ser fatal.
Ellos, aristócratas y novatos, escucharon.
Finalmente, decidieron seguirme, subiendo sus motos caras a la camioneta. Los llevé a una zona más segura. Los observé desaparecer en la curva, luego giré mi moto hacia los valles profundos. El viento me envolvió, llenando el silencio entre lo que se había perdido y lo que aún quedaba.
Epílogo49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKWFnbvi7Tz
Han pasado décadas. Chile ha cambiado, las carreteras son más anchas y los cerros del Maipo están llenos de vida: buses turísticos recorren las mismas curvas donde alguna vez corrimos sin saber lo que nos esperaba al final. Sin embargo, cada vez que vuelvo a subirme a una moto —pocas ya, pero aún algunas— siento sus fantasmas detrás de mí.
El de mi padre, medido y severo, hecho de disciplina y de códigos. El de Fernando, inquieto y temerario, quemando cada instante como si la permanencia fuera una trampa. Entre ambos, cargo un silencio formado con partes de los dos.
Aquella última noche, cuando mi padre susurró pidiendo perdón, entiendo ahora que no solo buscaba el mío. Quería liberarse: de su propio juicio, del orgullo que lo había separado de la compasión. Al final, esa decisión trazó la frontera entre mi silencio —la advertencia que nunca pude darle— y el destino que siguió.
Y Fernando —marcado por ese apellido doble, por la ausencia que conllevaba— se quedó como recordatorio de todo lo que distingue y divide. Es el eco de lo que el orgullo destruye: la ilusión de que los apellidos y las formas pueden mantener el peligro a distancia.
A veces, cuando el viento baja del cañón y el olor a tierra mojada entra por la ventana, escucho el leve rumor de un motor subiendo por los cerros. En ese sonido vuelven las dos voces: la contención del padre y la rebeldía del amigo, persiguiéndose una a otra a través del tiempo.
El perdón, me digo entonces, vive en algún punto de esa distancia. No en las palabras, ni en los recuerdos. Solo en el movimiento: entre la respiración y el silencio, entre el zumbido del motor y el eco del pasado, que para mí aún no se apaga.
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and then Add to home screen.