Quick Night Ride

Beneath the lamp

Took the Lemond out to the garage, I used my wife’s art bag, an over the shoulder canvas bag for carrying paints and brushes when out landscape painting, and rode off into the gathering darkness. The lane out of the village was haunted by moths, they whirred and fluttered through the inky twilight, heading for the roadworks checkpoint. A huge floodlight acted as a surrogate moon and the moths danced in it’s fierce radience, keeping time to the chug of a diesel generator. I paused beneath the lamp for a photo, the workmen in the background never turned round, their conversation fell about me, broken up into random words by the thump of the generator and the buzzing of the lamp. On to the garage, bread, drinks, crisps, stuffed into the bag and then I was away. Down the ghost road, a galloping shape in the middle of the lane bouncing over the blinded sockets of the catseyes. A young badger, as I approached it made itself larger and huffed loudly, but lost its nerve and dived for the hedge as I whispered past.

There’s something special about riding at night, other worlds seem close, memories push through the membrane of forgetfulness making their way to the front of the brain and standing revealed like a long lost relative. The air is sharper and the roads faster. I love riding the magic hour, just beyond dusk but not quite into night. One day I would love to just ride through the night, arriving home in time for the first rays of dawn.

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