At 2 am each kilometre stretches out for much longer than a regular daytime kilometre. It’s a fundamental lesson in relativity.
Sometimes I’ll count out the pedal strokes, or count out the seconds, listening to my heartbeat or the sound of tyres rolling on dark ribbons of tarmac. Far from distractions they are reminders of the moment I am in. An amplified sense of self awareness, a tangible connection between body, time and space.
The best thing about riding through the night is probably the peace and solitude. There is a beauty in the emptiness.
Riding through towns is like entering your very own post-apocalyptic movie. Sure there’s the occasional beer zombie staggering home, but mostly it’s just foxes and badgers creeping back to reclaim the spaces which people usually clatter through oblivious.
Normal people are fast asleep.
Just before dawn the songbirds start their wake up calls. Still very much dark they provide a gentle morning soundtrack. Waxing and waning as you roll past each treetop calling post.
It’s a change from earlier evening interludes of singing out loud to myself. Remembering songs that happen to fit in with the tempo I’ve settled into. Finding lyrics to push me forward. Singing loud because there is nobody else to hear. Chuckling to myself at how bad I must sound.
Before darkness is the slow plunge into twilight as the westering sun dips below the horizon. The cold night time air steadily takes over, cold pockets at first interrupting the warm, and then warm pockets interrupting the cold. Eventually it’s all colder, fresher and blacker.
Colour disappears and the world shrinks into a pool of light just beyond your front wheel.
It’s funny how I remember long rides in reverse.
Eventually the dawn brightens the sky and reveals a new day a hundred miles away from where you left the last one.
Maybe the finish line is within sight or maybe not. To make these moments I guess you just have to keep pedalling.