Reawakening

As I’m hurtling back from Wraysbury, with my skiffing patch still stinging and a new blister on each thumb, I realise this is what it’s all about. A straight road, flanked by dry sweeping grass, tall thistles, broken-necked cowslip, humming with crickets, rustling as I rush past. Riding into air hanging with the smell of warm silage, cows, grass, left in the sun, countryside, work. Pedaling as if propelled, a different smell every time I inhale. Dank water, farm, barbecue, motorway, rice, old perfume, bins, cigar smoke, grass.

I can’t tell but the sky is changing, the sun is sinking, yellowing, the clouds are uncrisping and mellowing into a thick slump of grey, warm grey on the horizon, stealthily rolling into a storm. Long shadows stretch out further, until there’s no more light to make them. The only wind is because I’m moving, zooming, fast. I turn my head to the side and silence. Swinging into familiar streets, regal terraces warm and welcoming, two girls chatter down the road, animated silhouettes in the last weak rays of sunlight. Even the cars look beautiful tonight.

Suddenly everything seems so simple.