confession of a lesser cyclist

I threw away my biker button.  Daughter 1 and Daughter 2 and I all once matched.  No more.

Flicked it away at the top of the last hill home, at the top of Monster Hill when all I had left was the long glide down and around into the edges of habitation and a short puff and grind up our steep but small hill home.
We had come more than 80 miles that day, the usual route home from the coast, a ride I’ve done for more than half a dozen years now. We had left early, made good time, the sky still fully light though the sun gone down.  But I was spent in more ways than one.



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