Dispatches to friends

Evening commute (ii)

The light is dim outside of the warehouse, clouds cover the sky and keep the early evening sun out of reach. Roads are wet but I did not noticed the rain. My back to a window all day, I have forgotten to look out.

I prop my body up and press down on the pedals as if that can make me taller. My eyes scan the fields for signs of deer. They have been gone from my commute for so long but have recently returned, often eating, at times simply resting in the grass. No deer are within sight.

I lower my body back onto the saddle when I notice a jackdaw through the bare brambles by a field. The bird lowers themselves before jumping as if surprised by my passing.

'Sorry little one,' I shout back in their direction, my bike already beyond the boundary of the field.

A single slow light illuminates the path, signalling a fellow cyclist approaching from the other direction. I smile as we cross path, a natural kinship forged through our vulnerability on those lanes too narrow to accommodate a car and a bicycle. This evening, there are no cars.

I smell lanolin before I spot the sheep. They are becoming regulars on my commute again, their bodies still covered in a thick layer of wool.

A man steps over the broken stile, their body hanging precariously on a creaking step. I smile as I whizz past, the memories of precarious stiles flooding my mind.

I swerve towards the dead end leading to the cycle path. Two horses are gathered by a small mound of hay bales, munching away at the old grass. Heads together, I imagine them sharing a romantic dinner for two. I pass without a sound.

A trail of light smoke puffs and drifts over the distant dark woods. An unseen giant is smoking their pipe, mirroring the clouds in the sky. On the cycle path, a cyclist overtakes me, another sign of the changing weather. The cold is fading out, birds are singing early and late, animals return to the fields, and fellow cycling commuters emerge from their long hibernation.

I roll into the main roads, my mind alert to the rushing cars and rhythm of traffic lights. I escape into one last lane, the sky in the distant aglow with the sickly orange glow of light pollution, a sight I have loved and learned to hate. Countless lights lit up the city ahead, my house undoubtedly one of them.

I slow my pace by the micropub, memories of a warm evening spent laughing and drinking with colleagues floating in my mind. A few of my colleagues have left since that day. My wheels carry me away, back towards the main road where all my attention is needed to navigate the many potholes and speeding cars.

I push on up the never-ending rising slope, hop on the pavement, and return to the road until I reach the spidery dead-end of my street. The light from the kitchen glows warm, my partner's figure silhouetted through the venetian blind.

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