Look how the clouds are moving.

You go over a river, running fast on white stones.

There is a garage with an old car parked outside, a model you haven’t seen in ages.

Sometimes it’s so easy. My legs and hips rotate.

I see bearings in their race as if they were inside my own body.

Huge trucks are backed-up in the arteries of the economy. I slip by them.

Today a wild west wind has demolished the October tidy-up.

A spitting wind stings my face.

Brown water runs off the fields. The lanes are full of debris.

A gravity-burdened creature, I labour up a wooded hill, looking for the gap of light that tells me I am near a summit.

I ride every day now.

I think about little else but riding.

I am heaving myself into fitness. I am glad Jamie has made me do this.