Dusty Bike

It is dark, quiet, and still. The bicycle leans against the back of the couch, and wheels leave dusty marks on the floor. The dogs lay sleeping, curled up like donuts in their crates. They stir, but only slightly, as a switch is touched and light fills the kitchen. They dream of the chase, and I wonder if I’ll be at the hilltop by sunrise. Homemade scones, jam, and fresh, steaming coffee are stowed in a spacious canvas saddlebag. A tiny cloud of dust puffs off the rear flap when I slam it shut and cinch it up. I add one more layer of wool, and think that I should wash that dirty bike. But as the freehub tic-tic-tics down the hallway, and my headlight flickers, I think to myself, “Not today”. The waking of day, with several miles of gravel, has called me away.

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