Dispatches to friends

Evening commute (iii)

The air is fresh and a little colder than it has been recently. The gauge company at the end of the industrial estate beam a steady nine degree Celsius on its temperature display. I stop to slide gloves on over my fingers. They are too big, blue fabric dangles past my fingertips.

Clouds have drifted throughout the day, spreading and thinning to reveal patches of dark blue sky. I search for stars but it is too early and the world is too bright in the vicinity of the industrial estate.

I turn into the lanes. A red sign proclaims the road ahead closed and bars entry to cars. I have learned long ago that a closed road very rarely applies to cyclists and pedestrians so I carry on.

At the junction between two lanes, past the fields where deer like to eat, turquoise plastic barriers decorate the road as a garland of bright tinsel. The ground has been cut open in a straight thick line. Workers are busy on the other side of the enclosure by a white van. I consider turning around. The thought glides away easily. I do not want to join the main road. I shift one of the plastic barriers to create an opening for my bicycle.

I slither through the gap and walk by the hole in the earth. Below a thick even layer of asphalt, pebbles and dirt abound. I want to kneel down and touch the usually covered earth, let my body fall into the hole and feel the earth envelop me. But I know the workers up ahead will not let me. I walk on, lifting my bicycle over the gap to step on the other side of the road where the barriers are open.

I push my bicycle into the bumpy grass verge, past the workers, wishing them a good evening. They nod in acknowledgment, unbothered by my trespass. I return to the saddle, the hole in the ground occupying my mind. Childhood worries of how many layers we humans have been adding to the earth over the years return to me. I reasoned that if archaeology is digging into the ground, then that meant the earth used to be smaller. If the earth is getting bigger, wouldn't that unbalance the precarious physics of space and throw our planet spinning madly out of orbit? I understand science better these days but the thought still lingers at the outer edges of my consciousness. What if we end up building too many layers? Childhood fears are odd and long lasting. I can still feel the visceral tug in my stomach when the thought of an ever expanding earth took hold of me. I would grow dizzy and had to make myself think of something else.

A red car passes me by, oblivious to the signs peppered across the lanes to prevent circulation on that stretch of road. I do not see it return.

A large open 4x4 beams a streak of light into the oak tree by the field newly populated by sheep. A farmer stands in the grass, their trouser as aggressively orange as my jacket. A circle of animal swirls around them. He is standing still, hands in his trouser pockets, seemingly present only to be with his animals. The clump of oak trees at the end of the fields is silent, the drumming of the morning woodpecker long stopped.

I reach the edge of the village. A child is standing by a bicycle. They are still wearing their school uniform. The front door of the house is open, a glow of light obliterating the view of the inside. A woman steps out in her slippers. She is not wearing any coat. I hear her call to the child but the wind muffles her words.

My wheels weave their way between the potholes, bumps, and cars of the village main street. I turn by the pub and think of the swallows that will soon return.

I freewheel past the train track and towards the river at the bottom of the dip in the track. A black dog I have never seen is running ahead of me but I cannot see their human. They speed up as they hear me approach and bump the gate of a front garden open. I pedal on. They are not lost.

A single bat shows me the way again on the cycle path. I like to think it is the same one as the previous week. 'Hello,' I greet it with a beaming smile. I am growing used to their presence, my eyes seeking them out in the encroaching darkness. They do not lead the way to the end of the path today, stopping before the junction with the road I have yet to explore. I cycle past the metal barrier that prevents access to cars and return to the shared roads. Soon I am back on the main arteries, my mind drifting back to the quiet of the lanes.

Motors roar violently, my ears attuned to the slightest change in noise. I have developed a modern survival skills that lets me sense when a driver is about to bully and overtake me when they should not. A quick glance behind me and I swerve into the middle of the road, standing my ground.

The car revs their engine behind me but I do not care. There are two sets of red light coming up. They will have to stop soon enough. At the second light I move to the pavements that will carry me safely along the busiest section of my commute.

I join the flow of cars one last time, my legs speeding the rhythm of their revolution. Up the incline, onto a side street, past my local pub, and into the wriggles of my street. The windows of my home are open, a soft small light illuminating the bedroom upstairs.

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