Its cold. And in the headwind it is bitter cold.

But the die-hard cyclists are still out and about.
The two-wheeled commuters have long since showered and are behind their desks, eking out enough dosh to pay of that debt, and buy a dog, and switch to solar and go on that long-planned bike tour of Europe. Bless them all.

That leaves the young and the old riding around and seeking slivers of warm-light to decant and defrost.
This old wooden park-bench will do just fine.

Q: how can you tell if a cyclist is over 60?
A: they will always have a bell.

Lycra-clad 30 or 40-somethings on their high-end carbon fibre road bikes never have a bell. It might aerodynamically impede their GPS-app confirmed pace time to the next cappuccino.

–ooOoo–

Actually, I am over 60. Sixty-two in fact. I have no idea how the fuck that happened. Suddenly it is crystal clear to me that I have more birthdays behind me than in front of me. Even a couple of beers cannot un-sober that fact.

But. I am still riding (not as much as I should). And I have a bell. Proof.
And I seek out slivers of warm sun to sit and face into. Eyes closed. Slow breaths.
Grateful to be alive and grateful upon grateful that I am able to fully appreciate the gift.