I head left instead of right.
Then right instead of left.
Struggle up the hill, legs leaden, chest puffing.
Whilst absence may make the heart grow fonder, it certainly does not make the legs grow stronger.
The lanes in the Vale were peppered with occasional cyclists. All giving the nod of acknowledgement. The wave of recognition.
Zipping downhill I pass a familiar figure. It’s Jeff. We stop, chat, catchup briefly and go our respective ways.
Cowbridge bustles. It may be Sunday morning, but the café owners won’t be complaining.
The road to Llandow now feels easier. I can feel the legs return.
On the coast road.
With the wind.
A chap on a Mercian. I’ve seen him before. Slim rack on back. Sandwich box lashed with bungy. Cycle cap, old jersey, gnarled calves, strong as an ox. An old school audax rider. We ride together. Chat. The merits of the Mercian. The fun of component collecting. He peels off.
At Rhoose, I bump ino a colleague – Andrew – out with his mates. More chatting.
A surprisingly social ride for a solo effort.
Time rolls on. High tail it back to Whitchurch. Sun on my face. Wind at my back.
A big meal.
A 5 min snooze.
Then back to the coast. Southerndown. Temperature yo-yoing. Kids running around like loonies. Dodging the wind. Worshiping the sun. Mugs of steaming tea.
This is what Sundays are surely all about.