A winter Evening Ride
Chaos, squeals and release
I’ve missed the day, busy with other things. I need a ride and it’s getting dark. And cold. But needs must.
I dress quickly into anything warm and fit for cycling and set out into the gloom.
It begins to snow, if the polystyrene balls that bounce around on the oily black road count as snow. They seem to roar into the earth as they fall. There is no moon. The sky retreats. The mountain shape of the Maiella mountain indistinguishable from the sky which turns quickly night black. Everything is in a state of chaos. Branches jostle against each other like people in a disorderly queue - ‘stop pushing, I’m not. It’s him’.
I ride into it - the wind - and it squeals like a little person excited to be out. The white balls bounce around and gather in grooves of clothing. Pedals turn, corners are taken precariously, even up the hill to Bocca di Valle.
I arrive at the fountain where water still dribbles from the pipe sloshing in an unsteady stream into the basin below. I have no plans. Left or right? It’s easier to turn right into the wind, so I do. I love being out in this. No one else seems to and that makes it all the more special. The wild night is mine. All mine. I smile at the thought, eyes flicking snow. The lights of villages and distant houses strobe behind trees. There is a slushing from my tyres. Better the wetness of slush than the drill of ice. Bitter woodsmoke curls in the air fuming up my nose.
The snow escapes across the road, but is snared in the verges. It struggles there, wild and frenzied before resigning into a sort of stillness. Black turns white. Cornering is a little riskier, the senses a little more alert. I draw straight lines with my tyres on the flat road wrestling with wind which tries to ruin my art. Two wheels into one. When the road turns I create a nearly neat right-angled corner with a hypotenuse.
The descent begins. Fingers feather the brakes. ‘Caution be thy watchword’, I mutter. What in summer takes a minute or so, now takes tens of them. My fingers begin to hurt with cold. Gloves are now soaked and extract heat. I have not pedalled for five kilometres but there is still more descent ahead. There are glissades of black ice to fumble over. Feet begin to contract. Chin crinkles with chill.
In time - what time? there is no time here - I reach the crossroads with the wind still busy re-arranging things. My face stings. Ice turns to water and makes its way through seams. Clothes turn liquid. Shoes fill, muscles stiffen. My legs turn squares now, too cold to pedal smoothly as the road rises up through the silent village of Rapino, its neon lights spitting orange.
I feel alive. And in pain. It is a raw pain, more the shock of ‘what the hell are you doing?’ than real pain. Everything is heightened. All senses on a weather warning. It is the hour of exiles. The time of not belonging. It is a wonderful time, both melancholic and up-lifting. Everything is energy. The snow - restless and fidgety cooped in black clouds like children trapped in class, now freed and running haphazardly, noisily and delighted with release. In my narrow beam of useless light, some snow seems to be lifting off the ground and returning skywards. it is mesmerising to watch. Fortunately no-one is around to avoid, no cars, no dogs, nothing. The road is entirely mine which is a relief as I am using its full width now.
One more slope to tackle and then I am back - frozen and alive.
I’ve been an hour out. Possibly less. It seems as if half the night has gone, but is only 17.00.
The fireside back home will be the cosier for this. The house lights flicker ahead - there could not be a better welcome back. The day is complete. Exalted.