Frozen ruts and a bitter northerly, the waning moon fading into a diluted blue. Near gate 13 fleece is bundled against the fence like fuzzy snowdrift. Down the track no one uses through Friday’s tyre tracks.
Two hours of frozen hills and magic light. A few new trails added to the not quite a straight line to work, familiar fields from unfamiliar angles. A couple of moments stopping just to look and to listen. From high on the hill can see almost all of the previous twelves miles ridden. A painted backdrop.
Ice and a slice (of cake). Polystyrene tea on the side of the road in the rain. A metric century almost rounded up to an imperial century except it was too grotty to go round the block to make up the last little bit. Ninety nine point nine.