There’s a moment. A quiet, chilly moment. You’re standing in the doorway, bike ready, snacks packed, one arm in your jersey — and you’re just staring at the sky. It looks… grey? But not mean grey. Kind grey. A little damp around the edges. Possibly…
You clip in on a crisp September morning, still high on memories of July watts and suntanned smugness. You tell yourself the legs are still there. They’re just a little “rested.” A little “recalibrated.” You roll out. And by kilometre 12, you know.
You’ve finished your ride. You’ve climbed hills, outrun a wasp, and maybe even waved smugly at a runner. You’re tired. You’re sweaty. You’re pretty sure your left hamstring is considering resignation. There’s only one thing on your mind.
It’s summer. The sun is out. The roads are warm. Your tan lines are oddly specific. And in the distance, you see them: another cyclist, beautiful, glowing, legs spinning like poetry in motion. You make eye contact. You feel the stirrings of something…
