Un-setting the alarm that evening, I arrive home. One collapsed shelf, a bruised shin, and three full-face spider webs later, I emerge from the deepest, darkest, garage corner with my one-time companion--one time being the amount of use it got. Through tearing eyes and choking coughs, I dust down the silver frame and rusty mountain-ready wheels in preparation for its morning expedition.

* * *

Earlier than usual, the garage door clunks shut. I lock it, cock my leg over a still dusty seat, and wobble unsteadily past my Nissan. I pass Roly-Poly's chip shop, pedal over the road bridge to join cycle route 4, and set off past green bushy banks, litter heaps and graffiti.

Fresh breezes waft against me, morning sunlight warms me, and birds sing happily as my leg muscles weep. Two cyclists approach and my newfound cheeriness makes me look at them and yell, “Morning!”

Red, flame-stencilled helmets zip by without a sideward glance.

I stop at a road crossing. Another stretch-clothed cyclist with plastic head protector pulls up beside me, and I look towards him, waiting, so I can offer a convivial 'Good Morning!' but he never moves. Staring, eyes fixed ahead, calf muscles tense, he waits for the green man to signal our safe crossing. And he's off! I watch his legs pump mechanically as he powers onwards.

I try again at the next road crossing. I try on the way home, on the way to work the next day, and every day thereafter for a whole year.

Same result: deadened, transfixed eyes staring ahead, never talking, never acknowledging my presence.

"I've entered a world of adrenalin psyched, zombie bikers," I think… as I stare intently at the crossing.

.david welsh