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Dirt is talking to me. Into day 12 of the ride and clicking over the 2,000km mark somewhere, the road and I are tight. I am inevitably riding solo again — you start alone, end alone. OK, lots of angels and kisses hovering in this white-shredded acrylic sky, and a few Devil pricks, as Hetty the 1,200 BMW GSA beastess burs and purrs beneath me.
The rasping cries of dying pilgrims, worse than a tree hyrax screaming into the night, woke me. For the umpteenth time. Oh yes, those are my lungs fighting that weird “flu” going about. The Peril had it, Dom at work has it, I have it, but ... I have things to do! Places to get to, planes to catch, citadels in which to swan about, art to die for, in the best sense, where you fall about wasted and grateful.