Best to put that rear light on. Just in case.
This fella’s flying, rucksack ‘n all. Train to commute, or commute to train?
The Lewis Arms is quiet. Normally a punter or two, enjoying some ‘me’ time.
The arm hurts. REALLY hurts. I think I’ll have to put up with this ad-infinitum. It’s the rocking, the yanking on the bars, the curse of the singlespeed obsessive.
One car, two car, three. A berth befitting a HGV. The light was worth every penny.
The sun plays hide and seek with passing clouds and tree canopy. An elusive, golden, joy.
Get low, really low. I’m descending faster than the cars. I get fleeting thoughts about crashes and consequences. It’s the legacy again. The arm. Euphoria triumphs over concern.
Climbing to the moor, I pass a woman twice, a photographer, flitting from vantage point to vantage point. We acknowledge each other, chasing the same thing, with different tools.
Welsh ponies stop my progress. Again. It’s their road. No complaints.
Griffin Mill. My favourite roundabout. It’s like the Hadron collider if the Hadron collider was a great big carousel consisting of fast cars driven by slow witted drivers. I make it to the other side.
Homeward bound. It’s green, green, green with extra splashes of green. The road rises and falls like a billowing blanket. I tuck in to let a car pass. The driver fails to acknowledge the courtesy. I put the hammer down and draft behind it for a mile or so. I guess we’re even.
The last hill. You’ve always got a bit for the last one, haven’t you? I sprint up and over, dropping into Radyr adrenalised and happy. Endorphins you see. Always worth the price of admission.
Top image: The road, the feeling. A picture paints 1000 words.