You left at 16:10. The sun sets at 17:01. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
Everything could go wrong.
You realise the sun is faster than you
There’s a point on every October ride when you look up and realise the light is lying. The sky was golden just a minute ago. Now it’s… navy. Purple. Maybe dark grey? It doesn’t matter. Your brain has entered the “ride faster now or die cold” mode.
You try to pedal harder. The wind picks up. A leaf hits you in the face.
Your Garmin starts making noises you don’t recognise.
You are not in control. The sun is in control. And it is leaving.
You forgot how long shadows are in October
It’s not night yet, technically. But your own shadow is now longer than your entire family tree.
Every object looks suspicious and haunted.
A bush becomes a wild boar.
A mailbox becomes a cryptid.
You think you see a cyclist up ahead, but it’s your reflection in a shop window, and they look terrified.
The world is now a David Lynch film. You are underdressed and increasingly afraid of squirrels.
Your lights are either dead or mocking you
You brought a light. You’re not a total amateur. But it’s been sitting in your saddlebag for two months, and now it blinks like a sad lighthouse saying goodbye.
You try to ride faster. The battery rides slower. Your rear blinky light (if it’s still on) is now just decorative, like an LED eulogy for your judgment.
You see a driver’s headlights behind you and whisper, “Please see me.”
You whisper it again when you pass a reflective road sign.
Then again, to a cow.
You start narrating your own documentary
“I was just going for a quick ride,” you say out loud, to no one. “But I pushed it too far.” Your voice is cracked. Your fingers are stiff. You imagine the camera zooming in as your wheels spin through dusk like a tragic Netflix intro.
You’re the main character in a film about what not to do. The genre is autumnal survival drama. The soundtrack is just your own breathing and the occasional squirrel shriek.
The temperature drops and your soul goes with it
You were warm an hour ago. You were invincible.
Now your neck is cold. Your knees feel exposed. Your base layer feels like a wet napkin made of betrayal.
Your gloves have become psychological warfare. You can no longer operate your zips. You consider stopping to add a layer but fear if you stop, you’ll never move again. So you panic-zip a half-gilet with your teeth and continue ride like a superhero whose only power is bad decision-making.
You arrive home deeply changed
You roll into your driveway with 2% battery, 1 working light, and 0 dignity.
Your face is crusted with wind and regret.
You are now afraid of daylight, darkness, and clocks in general.
You hang your bike on the wall and whisper:
“I made it.”
Your partner says, “You smell like mud and fear.”
You nod. “Thank you.”
