The ride that spanned into the 12th hour

I'm writing this fresh, even though there's well over two weeks of my small visual segment of the world to pontificate over [as in, outstanding Blips - and that] , as I launch into the moonlit spotlight confines of The Cheequey Bus + tentatively remove the over tight attire of a range of cheap cycling kit, salty + lovingly used to great lengths over the day - I feel the need to record the flawless extrication of a day, so very near to perfection that it seems almost like a dream.

The Monday was already bellowing in a blissful blanket of deep Mediterranean heat as I rode my bike in a few momentary circles beneath the glimmering mirror birds in a Platt Fields Park; already awakening with a roar of smoky BBQs + competitive sweat drenched games on the tennis courts - glimmering in the diamond studded shimmering lake [riddled with Algae] until the distant vision of alternating reddened adorned Lycra Legs belonging to Nes Bear appeared from behind the abundance of trees that I've never learned the name of : we were going for a ride . .

Equipped with some smash grabbed crap snacks + a towel the size of a hanky, some torn off industrial sand paper [to make up a dodgy puncture repair kit] + some out of date sun cream we headed east along the much loved Loop, past the Donkey Sanctuary - and beyond there ; I wonder where ! The hills gradually became more pronounced as we eagerly left the sweltering hum of the city, dripping behind us; striding + riding the metres of mayhem that we left behind us it wasn't long before we contemplated the first climb that sat before us - a perfectly surfaced road, sitting as a dark grey mish mash pattern of dramatic shadows casting down from the luminous lining of the surrounding collection of happily breathing trees; with seductive speckles of sun rippling along the heatwave swell on the horizon, daring us to embark on the inevitable incline. An orchestra of gears cranking lower + lower + l o w e r quickly symbolised the severity of the situation of the 9 miles of up that lay before us. My relief was encased in a quick absorption of perspiration when I realised that we were approaching the challenges for the day with a composed competence that could only be reflected from a couple of riding women who idyllically had the rest of the day to play with.

The shadows on our gyrating gear intermissions remained comically undersized compared to our melting frames as the sun continued beating down high in the sky, with the unfolding hazy levels of green + heather forming the Yorkshire Moors displaying dramatic dips + drops that peered down to sporadic twinkling pools of lagoon looking like water - so tempting that it was almost worth flying back down the tormented tarmac that was now satisfyingly in our history, just to immerse our bubbling beings into an ensconced corner of iced refreshment.
It was definitely an accident that we stopped for an hour and a half lunch break, and it was definitely an accident that we bought enough deliciously hearty, but wholesome food to feed a racing team - but it might have been because we found the most beautiful stream [that chuckled its gurgling way beneath a welcome canopy of a feast of luminous green leaved trees] to plonk ourselves next to in order to happily embark on a great session of stomach stuffing.

We couldn't believe it when we realised it'd already turned five, between nattering and nibbling away and stopping for water drenching stops we had yet to tackle the main challenge of the day yet - the magnitude that was the Holme Moss ascent. With sheepishly enlarged tummies we heaved our pedal powered machines into the ever reddening late afternoon sun, after calling in on a shocked looking woman minding her own business in her extensively beautiful floral garden for emergency water top-ups, it was finally time to give it a go. The road lay before us in a disconcertingly similar fashion as the ones I've become so well acquainted with over the winter - zigzagged - to accommodate for the great gradient, and the need to outweigh gravity in order to reach the summit. Encouraging, but crippling markings in the road educated us of the distance we still needed to cover to reach the top; ¼ of a mile at a time, that seemed to last an hour between each gauge. Encouraging mutterings, and inappropriately timed giggling fits somehow got us to top - which marks today's photo This is Nes and Me, we rode up some big hills- this was the biggest, and we're feeling fairly proud of ourselves].

At the risk of this entry turning into a self-indulgent essay, I think it's imperative to mention the sad and strange ½ hour that followed this climaxing triumph ; the appalling struggle + demise of Hoppy, the wild rabbit. We were mid-wail as we sped down a welcomingly blustery long descent, peering cautiously at our quick release components to check that we weren't going to head out ourselves, until I heard Nes scream + suddenly dodge a terrifying sight of a squirming bunny; obviously just bashed by one of the unnecessarily speeding bullies on the road, just seconds before we found him. We were helpless, and panicky. Or panicky, because we were helpless. His ears flopped from side to side, as he desperately tried heartbreakingly futile attempts to regain his wonderful leaping motion, leaving us to gawp at one another with wild lost eyes. We had to get him out of the road, that much we did know, but neither of us dared to. In the end we decided we'd do a hand each, but unashamedly petrified at the ramifications of hurting him further. A man in a flashy car pulled up, of whom we both later agreed that we instantly passed cautious judgement at as we were convinced he'd instantly say "Away with it, it's a lost cause", but he carefully picked up poor Hoppy + carried him to safety before going back to his car to get RSPCA on the phone, knowing full well it was a vacuous attempt, but potentially reading the emotional look on our faces and realising he didn't have a choice. But it was too late, Hoppy slowly stopped moving, then breathing, and we watched his shiny eyes turn still until he was no more. At least he was in a nice place, with the sun stroking his soft face to slowly take him away to the land of dead bunnies.

Then there was the sheep herding, that occurred ½ mile up the road, but we like to think that we might have averted a further disaster with that one.

The precious remaining roads that lay ahead couldn't have been long enough; the gluttonous lunch was now working to our great advantage as a conquering clobbering of the pedals was now allowing us to fly into the sun. This song was circulating my bicycling enamoured mind - almost hoping that our final destination, we wouldn't find...

The trademark end of ride rehydration station of blackcurrent + soda was greedily consumed, and closely followed by the tastiest + cheapest chickpea curry imaginable, once we'd arrived at our final stop of the day - such a spread of entirely vegan wholesome food - deliciously on offer at The Globe [marketing pitch, complete], where we accidentally settled ourselves down for an evening accompanied by a sit-down Irish folk band who all looked spectacularly like Santa and a hearty bottle of slurp heavy red wine.

A day so sublime, one of the most beautiful on record, I would imagine.