A cyclist overtook me yesterday on Heaton Park. As he did so, he jovially mumbled a few words, in that tone the experienced use to address fledgelings like myself. He certainly looked a seasoned cyclist - good but not new road bike, all lycra but no helmet, saddle bag not panniers, cleat pedals, a certain tanned and weathered finish to his skin - the works.
If only I had understood what he said to me: the only two words I thought I'd picked up were 'sky' and 'back'... or did he mean 'bag'?. Either he was critical of my posture as being too upright (I've been thinking about this, you see) and needs either a higher saddle or lower handlebars or both. Or he meant that the red flashing little light I've fitted to the back of my rucksack points to the sky when I bend forward (I don't ride that upright after all).
Or perhaps he was waxing lyric about the weather, sharing a moment of peace with the universe in the fraught and magical journey of life?
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