I point the bike north, toward a picture perfect town called Lucan, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows as I battle the winds sweeping across the freshly plowed farmers’ fields.
It feels good to be out there, hands cold soaking on the brake hoods, legs powering up hills carved eons ago by retreating glaciers.
Nothing in this moment matters beyond keeping the wheels tracking along the white line - or carefully drifting offline when the crumbling asphalt threatens to swallow a tire. I listen for traffic and scan my rear-view mirror, pushing everything else aside as the pedals settle into a gentle rhythm, the frame rocking ever so slightly side to side.
It’s taken me a few kilometres to find the right cadence, the right gear, the right mindset. Fast enough to be efficient. Consistent enough to not burn out before the turnaround point.
But there’s no burnout today, and soon enough I roll into the achingly quaint main drag and look for a spot to park and snack on some stale granola.
I stop just long enough to send my wife this proof-of-life photo, then plot the way home. I have just enough time before sundown to take the longer route, to race the sun with the wind, finally, at my back. Logic dictates the shorter path, but I decide logic doesn’t get to make this call.
Soon enough I’m back up to speed, passing pastures filled with cows, horses, and even a seemingly lost donkey. The shadows grow longer, the air colder, the wind stronger. As if an unseen hand now pushes me toward home, without which none of this would be possible.
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