riding

Finally the days lengthen and the sun has some warmth. I can ride to work in daylight and return home from work just before it gets dark. A month ago I leave at 4:30 and arrive at my door in darkness; now I leave at five and need a light only for the last 30 minutes.

Nicky sends me a text message on Wednesday asking am I riding Sunday. That message usually arrives Friday. She’s keen to get out there; me too.

The Dandenongs are lost in mist from my kitchen window as I eat hot porridge. Nicky rolls into my driveway at nine and we ride up the hill for the first time in a long time. The bitumen is wet all the way. There’s no pace on; Nicky sits on my wheel and we chat. Riders fly past us on their descent. Bikes line the footpaths outside the coffee palaces of Olinda and Sassafras.

Over the top we descend the One in Twenty taking wide arcs into the bends and back off the pedals. Spray off the front tyre dampens my shoes. I keep my luminous slicker on from go to whoa. Back in Croydon at 11 the road surface finally dries.

This afternoon I wheel three bikes out of the bike room into the backyard, hose them, soap them up and rinse them off. I dry each bike with a towel, return them to their support stands under the loft bed. I have ridden each this week and clocked 150 kilometres, my first week in triple figures for at least a month. The aim is always 200, but the chances are slim.

It’s good to be in the saddle. The legs have no form but they’re not dead. The week ahead offers little opportunity to ride.

Rock on.