Pawls buzzing like bees swarming, cold air, an unwanted icy kiss, evergreen trees gently mist into a looming grey sky. Cool black treacle tarmac drawn out in to the distance, with rusted orange hues daubed against the muddy brown of an empty hillside. Moving through silence and the white noise of a blustery wind. Narrow country lanes, high hedges, open landscape and the infinity of nature. Climbing, breaking the road down into sections, like stanzas of poetry, no chorus, only verse. I think its rained every day for the past month. I can’t even remember what it feels like to ride in shorts. Isn’t it funny how the mind wanders, when you are concentrating? You have definitely been fitter but is that the point? Hissing puncture, muddy fingers and the numbness of a bare hand in December air. Solace sought in coffee and cake, a hot shower and removing wet shoes. We await summer, yet we still ride, embracing the challenge of winter.