It is sunny outside, the sky blue and the light bright. It feels like a small miracle, the memories of winter's dark evenings still fresh in my mind. I leave the office with a thin jumper and a windbreak jacket on. It was not quite warm enough of an outfit for the morning, and this evening it is too warm. For now I am just about comfortable but I know from experience that within five minutes my body will swell and moisten with sweat. Still, I choose not to shed any layer. I like the warmth of my body at this time of year. It is a reminder that I can feel something else than cold, that my fingers will soon no longer be icicle sticks.
The puffy clouds of the day have melted under the sun, spreading into neverending ethereal trails. I can barely discern them in the sky. The sun has transformed blue into pure white. I avert my eyes and focus on the road instead. A man is cutting grass by the bridge over the single-track railway. The smell is potent and rich, dense with moisture and life. I inhale deeply, the first scent of what will again become a routine odour in my life.
Past the bridge, a stretched puddle lingers. I throw my feet off the pedals and let them hang in the air close to the top tube of my bicycle. The sun may be shining and warming, but puddles akin to ponds still adorn the lanes of my commute. I watch the dirty water splatter mud on the baby blue of my bicycle and wonder if I'll bother giving it a wipe when I get home.
I follow the familiar lay of the land, my eyes hunting for the deer I witnessed in the morning in the deserted horse field. They are nowhere to be found but I do not truly expect them to be there at this time of day. My eyes rise to the sky, still devoid of swallows. But I can sense their approach. They fly now over the cerulean of the Mediterranean sea, over greening France, over the murky brown of the Channel.
A couple of cyclists in short sleeve jersey pass me by near the farm with chickens, pigs, goats, and horses. A few weeks ago, only the chickens adorned the field, the other animals sheltered in barns too far for me to glimpse.
I continue on through the village of two pubs and out into the lanes. Horses bar my way up the hill, the riders pointing at something I cannot decipher in the distance. Another cyclist approach from the opposite direction. The riders shift their mounts to the grass verge and I pass them effortlessly offering my thanks in return.
In the net covered vegetable garden nestled in the crook of the incline to the cycle path, a man discusses the merits of a TV show I do not catch the name of with a person who leans over the stone wall, a marker of their property.
I push on the pedals a little harder to make it to the top without changing gear. After a winter of commuting, my bicycle cassette and chain are showing signs of wear I can no longer ignore. Rust is settling in, clicking sounds all too familiar, and gears struggle to shift. I make a mental note of all I need to purchase to return my bike to a state of effortless and silent gliding. I know I'll soon forget about the parts though. Hiking is what lingers if my mind. I have not gone on a multi-day hike for nearly four years and in less than a month I will be treading the Cotswold Way with my brother. A part of me wishes he had chosen a cycle tour as a birthday celebration, but a part of me is glad he didn't. I have missed hiking and his choice of gift is the perfect excuse for me to return to it.
I swerve past the metal gate at the edge of the cycle path and weave my way through a patchwork of puddles and potholes, feet thrown in the air. I have to be careful today, people abound on the path. It is no longer mine alone.
A cyclist has stopped by one of the opening onto a field. Their bike lay on the ground. They sit next to it, flask of tea in hand, cycle cap firmly set on their head, their gaze lost towards the horizon. I have no idea who they are but I am drawn to them, to the idea of sitting in that very same spot at the end of a working day and whiling away the time with a drink and snack. I do not stop to ask if I can sit too. I do not want to break their reverie.
I slow down as I approach the blind corner. A runner swerves at the last moment to avoid a collision. Soon, we will all have regained our alertness in that corner, slithering seamlessly past one another but for now we are rusty and clumsy. A motor revs loudly as a small motorbike emerges from a gap in the hedge followed by a yapping jack russell. The dog runs ahead of them, barking all the while. I slow down and stand on the pedals to gain a better view of the situation. I inch past the motorbike. The dog bars my passage at every attempt to get past, herding me with their human. Eventually the motorbike stops and the man calls out to the dog who obediently walks to their side. I cycle onwards, smiling, laughing, and waiving thanks to them.
Young children changed out of their school uniform dash onto the path, oblivious to my presence. I pull on the brakes and let them run, their carer apologising meekly. I wave the apology off. This is a shared path. I do not have right of way and this is fine. I am glad to see so many people out and about, remembering what it feels like to have a breeze caress their uncovered skin.
I exit the cycle path, ford the longest puddle of them all. It is sheltered by thick oak trees and high hedges. The sun does not have many chances to evaporate the water accumulated over the winter months. I half expect to find life growing in it one of these days.
Two ladies are coming my way, clad in rubber wellies and wide brim hats. One of them brandishes a litter picker.
'Nice day, isn't it?'
'Oh perfect!' I exclaim as I veer into the corner that will bring me to the first houses of the next village.
I stop by a stone wall. Empty milk glass bottles glistens in the sun. I rest my bicycle against the stones and sit next to it. The sun is still so high in the sky. I remember the times not so long ago when it barely illuminated the top of the copse in the distance. Three pigeons fly overhead, their wings beats loudly in the still air. I follow them until they disappear far above the fields, near the boundaries of the next town. The outline of buildings is as clear as an ink drawing of a skyline. Haze will come in the next few months and blur the edges of the world, but for now everything is still sharply defined.
I return to the saddle before my body has time to cool fully down. I enter the fray of busy roads, my attention on the tarmac and the spur of motors all around. The sweet smell of nascent flowers tickle my nostrils but I am in no position to linger. I push on, past the petrol station, and hop onto the pavement that leads me to one last lane. I dive into the empty road, my bicycle propelled by gravity alone. My legs know exactly when to kick in to send me up the small inclines effortlessly.
Sheep graze by the tall marching pylons, grass visibly lowering each day. The micro pub around the blind corner is not yet open this early in the week. I wish they were so I could stop and bask in the memories of long warm summer days. I carry on past the pothole obstacle course that the Council seem to have no interest in repairing, and stop by the main thoroughfare. I put my earphones in and join the flow of car during a brief lull in traffic, propping my bicycle in the middle of the road. Abuse comes and goes in the five hundred metres or so I am part of traffic before the cycle lane reappears. I do not hear any of it, the angry voices drowned by the energetic singing in my ears.
I navigate my local roads, force my way through crossing where cars never want to stop, and meander lazily through the twisted layout of my streets. I dismount the bicycle, unplug my earphones, and look to the sky. The garden is already laying in shadows, the sun obscured by the endless rows of brick houses that form the landscape of my daily life. The brilliant white of 5.30pm is gone. Muted blue and a faint apricot hues burgeon to the west. To the east, the moon rises, its outline etched in chalk over azure.