Hah. Rode my bike the scant four miles to Tom's, and back!
No doubt I look very silly, trudging up the Mt Tabor switchback, pushing my bike, with my rolled up trouser legs; and sillier still swooshing down the eastern side, my pale hairy calves glaring at the sky, and my white beard floating in the wind. The native priests are invoking their Lord: from the white calves of the northmen, dear God, deliver us! Soon enough He will, O Walesas! But not yet, not yet.
A white-sky day with faintly perceptible drizzle, not enough to wet a bicycle seat. September, a day early.
Full of love for you all. Good morning!