As you read the following short story, try to answer the following questions:

1. Find examples of the use of local color. How does it contribute to the development of the
story?
2. Characterize Miguel. How do his thoughts and actions illustrate the themes of the story?
3. Note the symbolism of Miguel’s Ray Ban. What other objects in the story contribute to
the development of this symbol?

ONE DAY ON THE ROAD

Temistokles M. Adlawan
Translated from the Cebuano by Merlie M. Alunan
Region 7 – Central Visayas

The last passenger has gotten off, an old woman carrying a smelly basket, and now I’ve a
mind to turn back and go the way I came. I take a quick look at the road to my back to check for
any coming traffic, a truck or any other vehicle heading towards my side of the road.

Through the Ray Ban which I am using to guard my eyes from the glare and the dust of
the road, I’m glad to note that the road is clear on both sides—it would be a cinch to turn back.
But an empty tricycle drives up behind me and positions to make a u-turn, with the intention, I
gather, to go back the same way it came, pick up any passengers on the way back to town to the
parking place which the new mayor, the Honorable Ferdinand M. Chiong, is planning to improve
according to the best standard.

My elation quickly fades, overruled by another feeling—one of disappointment. If I go

on back as I had planned and Inting-Sana’s son is going to do the same thing—any driver would,
and as I often hear this told among drivers themselves—we would be racing each other down
that road, a race to pick up passengers, and I am not sure there’d be any at this time. Or if there
are, how many would there be?

At the same time, it occurs to me that on one hand, I would choose not to turn back. Let
Inting-Sana’s son go ahead—for I certainly won’t allow him to get the better of me on the
road—I myself will drive farther up this road to Sitio Buwabog, where hopefully a creature with
the finest, smoothest skin is, at this moment, hanging out. Relax, take a breather from this
tiresome, wearying, dangerous occupation—driving a tricycle, a trade that most people looked
down upon, tyrannized at any time by the riding public, and persecuted by bigger vehicles along
the road.

Still, on another consideration, it wouldn’t be right for me to yield here, for after all, I got
to Sitio Inamo-an first, this place which is part of Barangay Lutac, therefore I should be first on
that road back to town. This is an unwritten rule among tricycle drivers—to respect the one who
arrives first at a place, he must be allowed to be first on the road back, a principle obeyed in
practice and recognized by all drivers—the first to arrive must be given the privilege to go first.
Without this principle to guide everyone, it would sure be messy.
 On this consideration, I decide to turn around. I figure if there are no other tricycles
plying the road ahead, I could pick up a few fares at the corner waiting shed of Soton, the first
sitio, where once I caught a glimpse of a girl showing of her sexy butt in the skimpiest of outfit, a
new one to my eyes; two former barrio captains of Barrio Pangdan, Undo Ikot and Bay Kadyo
Aliganga, all friends of mine also live here. The next waiting shed is at Sitio Humayan, this is
where the fares have become choosy about their rides, starting from the time when some of their
relatives began working abroad. And on to the waiting shed of Sitio Grey Rock (where I myself
live, in the only house left standing sort of askew on the side of a hill). Last, the waiting shed of
Barangay Mainit, which any old day, is abloom with the presence of many pretty girls, such as
Hope Canalita and all her cousins, the sisters Helen and Judith Sayson, the Aliganga sisters and
many others, you find them along the side of the road at Alice-Gary’s place all the way to
Carmen-Sammy and Seria-Willy. I don’t even count the waiting shed at Barangay Na-alad,
because I’m sure that in the places I’ve mentioned, if there are any fares at all, and if there are no
other tricycles plying that route, or turning back from Sitio Inamo-an, I’d surely be full house
already.

I get to the other side of the road, the right side that leads straight to town, ahead of
Inting-Sana’s son, whose small juvenile face is almost completely masked by his dark cheap
sunglasses, likely bought from a Muslim hawker, and who, at that moment, is starting to twist his
wheel. I have a mind to call out to him, “ ‘Do Sherwin, just give me a little lead, ‘Do, don’t
follow so close behind me.” But it also occurs to me that this guy’s been to the Don Emelio
Canonigo Memorial National Barangay High School in our barrio, surely he has enough
common sense to do the proper thing. So I stop myself from giving him my mind and simply
went on to drive past him.

I am on fifth gear and cruising at 30 kph on my speedometer, easy as can be, no problems
in the world, absolutely relaxed, thinking to myself, this small fellow, he looks like a child (as
small as Inting himself who’s even smaller than my own five-foot frame, puyra buyag), but even
he must know the rules. He should take care to stay behind, he should caution himself, because if
he sticks close to me, the two of us following each other so closely on this road, it would not be a
good thing for both of us picking up fares.

Driving on low speed, I feel easy, light, comfortable, enjoying the wind generated by the
velocity of the motorcycle, although my skin is still prickling to the bite of the early afternoon
heat. I whistle a light air to myself, thinking of the pretty little chicks who might be waiting up
ahead to ride with me. All my fares so far, puyra saway—because I’m no different from any of
them—were old women who went to town to sell their produce, their big baskets smelling of
tinabal, salted fish, and slightly putrid fish which they bought for their own food. From whistling,
I soon find myself singing la-la-la-la and hu-hum hu-hum an old love song in English, Brenda
Lee’s “Losing You,” a song I love very much, I used to sing it everywhere I went—that was
when I dropped out of school and became a ne’er-do-well rambler, moving out of Cebu to Davao,
Misamis Occidental, the two Zamboangas, there where I fell in love with a lot of women, wooed
them for their love, serenaded them, and all of them rejected me, so that now, all I could do is rue
my loss, and express my longing for them with this song that tells about lost love. All this, while
I believe myself to be well ahead, I glanced at my left side mirror to check. I cluck my tongue at
what I see. “This devil of a kid, he’s after me fast.” I feel threatened in my hope to pick up fares
in the Soton waiting shed.

I grip the clutch to bring it lower, hitting back to fourth gear. The motor gives a little kick
and the speedometer pointer climbs to 35 kph. I watch the point rise higher as I gear back to fifth,
keeping a steady pressure on the gas, glancing back again at the mirror, saying to myself,
“Ammhh, see if you don’t hang yourself now.”

Not him. Without a second thought, when he notices the smoke belching thicker from the
exhaust of my motor (which he must have breathed in, along with the dust on the broken cement
surface of the road pavement), and he gets wind of what I am doing, he follows suit, not wanting
to be left behind. I tell myself, This kid’s racing me for fares, as if he has a family to feed and
needs a lot of money.”

I keep the pressure up on the gas, twisting it more. My speed increases, but the devil take
it, Sherwin is right behind, closing up on my back.

There’s still room on the gas, but I desist from using it, first, because at the rate of 50kph,
it would not be easy to maneuver a vehicle running on three wheels, a little mistake, and it’s the
hospital, if not the cemetery, for the unfortunate; second, I feel the stress on the machine, it could
overheat, and the piston inside the cylinder will stop working; third, I’m still slightly ahead of
Sherwin, I’m close to the Soton waiting shed, and I’m planning to slow down in case there are
passengers.

Right enough, there are passengers. I am sure they’re waiting for a ride, for they get out
of the waiting shed and signal for me to stop, two boys and a girl in shorts, but I haven’t seen
their faces yet. When I am close enough to them, I recognize the girl as the sexy one I glimpsed a
few days ago in this part of our barrio, wearing that skimpy outfit and showing off he butt.

Of course I have not a whit of right, nor reason to feel angry or jealous—I’ve no
relationship of any kind with this girl, and I’m sure she’s never laid eyes on me until now. I
know nothing about where she comes from, her name, nor of the boy who is with her.

I let go of the had brake lever which I had prepared to turn, at the same time putting my
right foot on the brake pedal, using the clutch to change gear quickly back to third. Turning the
gas, I tell Sherwin, slowing down for an overtaking panel truck, while I slow down towards the
waiting shed, I throw these words at him:

“ ‘Do Sherwin, they’re yours. Animal, this girl, looks like she’s already taken!” Sherwin
does not answer, but I believe he would stop to pick them up. Why would he be racing me? It
could only be for fares. Here are two sure ones.

Well, I’m wrong! He tails me, like a shadow refusing to leave my back, he doesn’t stop.
Suspicion rises in me—he’s not racing me for passengers after all, he wants a contest, machine
against machine to find out which one is stronger, faster. I am suddenly afraid.
 We’ve the same kind of machine—two-stroke, self-mixing or auto-lube, Japan-made, but
his is a bigger 135 cc, mine only 125 cc. I could go up to fifth gear, however, he can go up only
to fourth. I am positive of my motorcycle speed, a brand different from the one I used to have
and from what Sherwin is now driving. But talk has it that Sherwin is a speedster, not only on the
tricycle but also on the habal-habal. I myself, who’s been long in this business of running a
tricycle, long before I retired from work, my wife still alive, my four children still unmarried, I
myself am witness to the fact that this kid can really speed his tricycle.

This is not to toot my own horn, but before a side car was attached to my motorbike, it
could go up to 120 kph or even more; with a side car, empty, it could make 60 kph; loaded it
could only do 40 kph. If the load’s heave, it it can barely make 40. I have no idea what Sherwin’s
motor is capable of. My worry grows like a boil inside me.

Except for that curve not far from the house of Bay Kadyo Aliganga, the waiting shed at
Sition Humayan should be visible now. I see people there, and farther off from the waiting shed,
near Ramon’s vulcanizing shop, I see two dump trucks following behind a passenger bus. I know
there are craters on the cement road near the waiting shed, and I figure that these large vehicles
will be on me on this bad patch of road, so I let off on the gass. From almost 60 kph, I am down
now to 45 kph after gearing up from third, but Sherwin, unmindful it seems, of the cracks on the
paving, unmindful of the approaching trucks, storms past me. Porbida! After that encounter—
those trucks bound for the mountain, the two tricycles going to town, I swallow the dryness in
my throat, catching a glimpse of three fares, all young women, getting out of the waiting shed
and signaling for Sherwin to stop. But Sherwin doesn’t stop for them, and now I’m pretty sure of
it, he’s out for a race, machine against machine to prove which one is more powerful. He’s not
racing me for passengers!

The three made a half-hearted effort to stop me, no urgency in their gesture; in such
instances, one may stop or not, it doesn’t really matter. I am driving through this area where
passengers are choosy about their rides. The tricycle must look spiffy, and the driver, preferably
not an old man.

Well, I decide I won’t stop for them, not even if they wave hard at me, I won’t stop. Even
if my earnings for the day, from morning till noon, is still small. It would have been good to add
to it, but at this point, my mind is no longer set on picking passengers. Away now from the
cracks and craters of the road, I gear up to third, hold it up, gear up to fourth, hold it on some
more. What I’m afraid of is this: that I would be put to shame when I pass by Grey Rock, the
place where I live, and I would hear my relatives and my neighbors shouting when they see me
beaten, hanging back: “Nggeee! Tricycle, ‘Noy Miguel, Bay Miguel, Itso Miguel, Miguel, loser,
loser, loser!” I clench my jaws but…

I’m marking speed close to 60 kph on fifth gear, I am moving forward, but not fast
enough to catch up with Sherwin. However, the difference is no longer too big. Which means,
we’re moving on almost equal power, considering that I still have a few more turns left on my
gas. I am wondering what Sherwin is keeping back, I’d really like to overtake him when we get
to Grey Rock. But the cracks and craters are on the road again, and there are two curves to
navigate before and after the waiting shed. I try to keep our distance down, putting up with the
smoke and the dust which he is making me swallow. The fear and shame pursue me all the way
to Barangay Mainit where, I’m sure, Hope, Judith, and Helen will witness the event and will join
in the shouting, “Wiiii! Loser! Loser!”

Had I any more muscles left in my jaw to clench, I would surely clench it now. Loser,
huh! This is Miguel who’s lived long enough in this world, a man of experience, a man who
knows a lot, all through his own efforts, even if he’s a dropout. Will he allow a mere high school
kid to beat him? Hmm, let him try. He will see. This thought is going on inside me. Meanwhile,
we are now on a straight stretch of road along Baranggay Na-alad, after the curve near Sammy-
Carmen, along Willy-Seria, past Namatyas Insek, the place of Penting the healer and Pulina-
Tiago, into and out of Mainiti, and at this point I take the last turn of the gas, ram the motor
which I’ve never done before, going for broke at last. At this point this is not a fight machine to
machine, this is a fight for pride! Pride! Pride! We flash past vehicles we have overtaken, even
more so, the ones we encounter.

Sure enough, I get what I want. At fourth gear, the speedometer begins to move from 60
kph to 70 kph, fifth, which brings me neck to neck with Sherwin, then ahead of him on that
straight stretch of road in Na-alad.

They dig me up from a plowed land by the side of the road near Sitio Luyo-Menteryo,
that’s were people pick me up, including Sherwin, the jeep owner, Melio Yoyot, Bay Jesus
Tolentino, Bay Marcos and Bay Doro, whose tricycles I have overtaken, but cannot now
remember where. There was a dump truck that Sherwin and I encountered, and after I had
overtaken him, I also tried to overtake an old, slow-moving jeep but I hit it with my sidecar. I
lost control of the tricycle which swung and lurched to the side of the road. A good thing the
owner of the jeep stopped, and Sherwin himself also slowed down and stepped on the brake, not
following what I did. I find this out when they are already recapping the event.

Those who were there take turns wiping the blood off my scratches and lacerations,
rubbing those parts of my body which hurt from the fall, and everyone who’s there is saying the
same thing, “Pride, pride got the better of you. Lucky thing you were flung from your tricycle to
this soft plowed soil.”

I do not look at Sherwin when he says, “Let’s take ‘Noy Miguel to the hospital.” I also
lost the Ray Ban which had barred my eyes from seeing.

Adlawan, T. One Day on the Road in L. J. Sanchez (facilitator), Teaching 21st Century Literature from the
Philippines and the World. Workshop conducted at the seminar of ACELT., Quezon City, Philippines.
August 18, 2018