Fine drizzle falls, but I'm on the trail. The trees give shelter.
It is so quiet, the drops on the leaves sound like distant surf. The only other noise is my own. Tyres on grit, rhythmic creak of handlebars, chuckle of chain through derailleur.
Bump through the potholes where trail meets road or bridge. A rumble felt more than heard along the boardwalk of the trestles.
Cheerful greetings with passing travellers. The sight of a deer grazing on the hillside cheers my heart.
On the road through sleepy housing, glimpses of sea over rooftops. I tinkle my bell to warn pedestrians of my approach; I try to make it a cheerful "hello", not a curt warning.
Out into farmland, scent of mown grass and manure.
Shift position in saddle. It's starting to get sore. I haven't done enough trips this year to harden myself to this distance.
Just a few kilometres left. Long slog uphill. Salt sweat stings my eyes.
It starts to rain again, real wetting drops. Welcome cool on my arms and legs.
The steamy fragrance of fresh rain on hot ashpalt. Aah! Mist rises from the fields.
Nearly home. Still that last hill to climb. Legs ache from exercise earlier this week. Hit my lowest gear and keep my eyes on the corner at the top.
Cold beer beckons.