cycle racing

There are times when words don’t need to be said. When the spoken alphabet adds nothing to the world. I didn’t need to ask the bloke sitting much too close at the bar last night, the names of his girlfriends/children, as they were right there, tattooed on his neck. I don’t need to ask a teenager what shop they got their sweater in, as it is right there, written all over the front of it.

Heart rate: 185bpm, my lungs feel like I'm inhaling fire, they're searing, every breath is bringing a wheeze with it that makes me sound like I've got emphysema, need to take deeper breaths. 

Shouts ringing in my ears. 

I need to get out of the saddle, keep turning the pedals.  Cowbells. 

I'm staring at my front wheel, hunched low over the bars, trying to wrestle the bike up hill faster than it wants to go.