The only washing on the line

Washing line 2-1780

I felt like the only washing on the line. Rain emptied in torrents, soaking, saturating and eroding. Occasional cars sent tsunamis fore and aft. Dog walkers cowed their heads under clear plastic hoods. My wheels threw grime and debris in their wake. I saw 4 other bikes in 40 miles.

It wasn’t supposed to be a solo effort. Knee pain dissuaded me from riding with others. You might want to go less. You may even fancy more. Push it. Only be accountable to yourself. The devil dripped honey in my ear. 4 layers of clothes. A banana. Some innertubes. Into the maelstrom.

Ride enough in this weather and you’ll evolve. Surely. Webbed fingers and feet. Gills around the jawline. I could see little ahead as the rain hammered the peak of my cap. Through Cyncoed and St Mellons.

Rain.

Through the country lanes and hinterlands of Cardiff and Newport.

Rain.

The Norman Castle at Caerphilly, its moat deepening and spreading.

Rain.

The climb to Senghenydd Moor. Penetrating load cloud, the sheep spectate silently.

It eases.

I dodge a nasty pile of splintered glass. An Ajax ride was not so lucky. I stop and offer assistance. The tyre is peppered and he  declines; loved ones are on the way.  It’s the home stretch, so the knee gets tested until a pothole interrupts proceedings. The water is flush with the road and hiding the hazard’s depth. Its buckaroo time. Brake, hop, skip, jump. I escape unscathed.

Time for the Garth? Yeah. Finish on a high. Up, over, descend, return.

2 hours later, mine was the only washing on the line.

Looking forward to some company next week.

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