It is getting heavier. Rain tapping out a rhythm on my helmet, “Faster now” it whispers softly. I look down, water quietly resting on my head pours down jumping off my nose to an uncertain future. 24.3, I don’t know if I can go faster. Out of the saddle and in the drops, only way to find out. I catch my shadow dancing next to me and it looks like it is having a better time at this than me.

The road tips down. Chin to the bar and ass in the air. I can taste the winter salt spraying off my front tire, puckering my lips, burning my eyes. 39.3. I am a kid again, racing down Lamplighter Lane, flanked by brothers and imagination. I turn my music off and listen. Soft rubber is cutting violently through dirty rain water, loudly protesting the conditions.

Road tips up, fun’s over. I hear the whine of my chain stretching over infinite teeth, being constantly tortured. Each stroke is a puncture wound. 1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4 cycling is a practice in repetition.

Half way up, and the rain wants to make it’s presence known. It won’t be ignored. I try and think of my heroes, is this how they became legends. Rolling on the days when nobody else would? I have to believe it. 
My leg’s are no longer mine. I reach down and try and massage an almost cramping calf. Nothing. I cannot feel it. Only thing to do is keep pedaling. Knees extended on demand, and I am out of the saddle climbing, smiling, rain pouring down my back. 1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4.