I was cycling through the Dorset countryside. Birdsong around me. Wild flowers in the hedgerows – red campion, still some bluebells, white clouds of cow parsley, bright yellow buttercups.
I heard a motorbike behind me. Not fast and furious. Not ridiculously loud. But there, none the less.
A passing place appeared and I slowed and moved over.
The motorcyclist eased past leaving me plenty of room. He waved and I thought, this is how it should be.
I struggled up the hill that followed.
At the top, in another passing place, the motorcyclist had pulled in. I stopped next to him, breathing really quite heavily, heart pounding.
The motorcyclist was an older man. I imagined grey, thinning hair under the dark helmet. His visor was pulled up from a smiling face.
“Hello,” he said, “Is that one of those electric things?”
My bike, Scott Three.
“No,” I said, struggling for breath. “Leg power.”
“You did well on that hill then.”
My heart beginning to return to a more sensible beat, I said, “I really didn’t.”
“I used to cycle a lot with my dog. When she died, I couldn’t face cycling and bought this. I couldn’t start again. Don’t you stop, will you?”
“No. No, I won’t.”
We chatted. The weather. The roads.
“Well,” I said. “Good to meet you.”
“You too. And remember, don’t stop.”
I carried on, passing again red campion, bluebells, white clouds of cow parsley and the bright yellow buttercups.
