jim clarkson

It’s done and laid to rest. We packed the chalk, mud, flint and turnips away into the box of the past. 

Seeing out through fog curling across the sultry contours of The Downs,  many wheels turning. Frequent air escaping our lungs and tubes, round a loop thats bred laughter, cursing and exhaustion.

Skinny wheeled bikes squirming through the rotten leaves and white dirt, squeals of brakes and laughter, the makings of a grand day out.

A familiar dance of dirt and wheels, faces and frames, minutes that unfold into hours, legs that burn and eyes that water. Tough, but not hard. Long, but not far.

Group pause to glance across the vista, distance hills ridden earlier, watching the weather front reveal gradient sunset, nods to each to finish. The thoughts of warm food and clean clothes.