There are some things in life, so simple, so easy to fathom, that you wonder why they remain some kind of dirty secret. Take the commute for instance. I left the house this morning at a smidgen after 8 and moseyed slowly through Llandaff North and the Taff trail. I didn’t feel hurried, harried, rushed. No need. I know for sure, that my commute will be a titchy bit faster or slower than 25 minutes depending on how leaden my legs feel. I rode along busy roads, quiet paths and through painted subways. I felt the wind buffet my face. I watched a couple of 100 metre heroes, blaze past the 18” wheels of my folder. I saw a women with a dog or with a pony or with an animal that looked like a dog but was the size of a pony, struggle with it on the lead. We exchanged smiles. I saw cycle chic in motion by the College of Music and drama. I witnessed the train station empty its contents, an MP3 army marching on retail. All the while I didn’t use a drop of expensive fossil fuels, nor sit at my steering wheel with steam pouring out of my ears, nor feel my investment depreciate below my backside, nor feel my breakfast feel heavy and unused.
I arrived in good nick, good time and good spirits. Car commuting? I just don’t get it.
Top image: Cardiff Bay last week.