I have no idea of how many miles I rode today. I know that I followed a combination of familiar streets and paths. And my bike—Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore, sang in tune with the autumn breeze, and me.
That last part is what I will remember. And the light that coruscated through the leaves:
Is that—what I will recall—the difference between cycling in midlife and those rides where counted miles?
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