Biking

 Last time I rode a bike was in Belgium quite a few years ago. Long straight roads, no hills and a culture that doffs its cap to the cyclist at every turn.

As a young man I rode a bike round Cambridge and the surrounding countryside. Again, that's fenland- so nice and flat. I have memories of carrying on with the cycling in my first curacy, in Wythenshawe- which isn't flat at all. I have memories of tearing up the hill for Holy Communion on a Sunday, arriving with minutes to spare- and getting the stink eye from the vicar, my boss, who thought I was a horrible scruff. He once threatened to send me home if I showed up again with my shoes unbrushed. "When I was a curate," he said, severely, "We thought it important to have neat hair and shiny shoes- for the honour of the priesthood and in order to impress the laity." What I wish I'd said in reply is, "And what did Jesus wear on his feet then?"

That was a bit of a digression.

As a teenager I did a fair bit of cycling. I had a bike at my boarding school. If you went out for a cycle ride it was considered an adequate alternative to playing team sports- and I hated team sports. The road from Lancing up to Bramber and Steyning is pretty steep. Travelling the same road in the car I have compassion on my younger self.

Looking back, I wonder why, since they'd been foolish enough to give me my liberty, I didn't just keep on cycling until night fell.....

I was never a daring cyclist. I never went down a hill without toying with the brakes. 

I was riding a bike in a dream last night. It was dusk. I switched on the headlamp and instead of showing up the road ahead it blinded me.....