A thin layer of frost coats the lawn, the trees, the rooftops, the view out the window provoking a shiver at the thought of heading outside. The cold kept at bay for now, not in here, not yet, I sit sipping the last of my coffee. The indulgence of morning routines. Stepping out the door, through the barrier from the order of the home, the nest, ready and armed to pave a two wheeled path of sublimity through the chaos of the world.
Passing through the suburbs and estates of closed curtains hiding the cold from the Sunday morning sleep-ins of the masses. Past the park and the school closed and quiet, ready to be reignited the next morning. Over the main road, the veins of the town, calm and subdued, pumping a relaxed rate of morning family visitors and the odd churchgoer.
Over the main road, the last barrier between me and nothing, into the trees, the silence of the lanes, only occupied by my breathing, the sound of the chain tensioning over sprockets and chain rings. This is my church, these sounds are my choir, the forthcoming burn of my muscles, repentance for my sins.
The real world a frosted blur in my peripheral, as I ride the plane of watts and what’s on the road ahead, the other world we escape to when we can. The meditative hours pass with only hunger and bird song breaking our escapist trance.
Back over the main road, colder, more fatigued but equally more refreshed than before, a new man, a man who has seen the abyss and just kept turning the pedals, painfully choosing the light of home. The dark and sleepy town coming to its senses and brighter now into the afternoon.
Through the front door with a relieved sigh of the weary, thoughts of food and warmth at the upmost. The warmth sinking back into the bones, aided by hot tea with an embracing smile of a loved one. The kitchen table, not the comfiest but more than enough to rest the tired body, a tired body left to rest allows a restless mind to return to the world we escaped, the one we dream of leaving, longing for the road once more.