Boris Bajic
Guest
They are impossible to count. The drive was lovely and the ride was better.
The smell of blossom, the buzzards overhead, that excellent tired-lungs feeling when you drop back into the saddle and breathe deeply for the coming descent, the occasional cyclist spotted en route, getting a both-thubs-together gearchange just right before a hump-back bridge, glancing down and seeing my speed is higher than I thought it was, popping the peak of my casquette down and finding it keeps the sun perfectly out of my eyes... I could go on.
I usually do.
The smell of blossom, the buzzards overhead, that excellent tired-lungs feeling when you drop back into the saddle and breathe deeply for the coming descent, the occasional cyclist spotted en route, getting a both-thubs-together gearchange just right before a hump-back bridge, glancing down and seeing my speed is higher than I thought it was, popping the peak of my casquette down and finding it keeps the sun perfectly out of my eyes... I could go on.
I usually do.