It’s dark and it’s raining, a soft steady soaking rain, spattering my glasses. My view of the world is a shimmer of shattered light, a kaleidoscope of coloured fragments, hard to judge distances, hard to see the gaps. My brakes are as effective as wet paper, so I have to go slow knowing that stopping will take time but knowing that the longer I ride for the wetter I’ll get. My jacket is wet, my gloves are wet, my saddle is wet, my bag is wet and my feet are wet and then in the evening everything is all still damp and clammy from being stuffed in my bag for the day. This is head down, elbows out, get-it-over-with cycling.
This is not just rain, this is December rain. And I wish it would bloody stop.
Still, at least I get the pick of the bike racks at the station. Where have all the other cyclists gone? Barbados?