This morning it was cold, bitingly cold with the southerly wind blowing in from the Cape. I could hardly feel my fingers so I think it's time to get some full-length gloves. The streets were completely empty and quiet, but occasionally I'd pass a shadow, a walker or runner, even more surprised at the quick swish of the wind as I flew past. For a split second I imagined their bewildered faces, but the rough tarmac and cold in my fingers brought me quickly back to my bike and the whirring sound of my tyres. It's cold, but there is a certain clarity in the morning. Gone are the noises, the lights, the distracting bustle and chaos of vehicles and people. There is a purity in the morning, and I feel at one with my bike, a quick flick of my numb fingers to go up a gear and settle into a nice efficient rhythm. My legs spin quickly and it is only as I round the Marginal Point that the full blast of the morning wind hits me and slows me down. Another flick of the gear lever. My chain is now twisting from the front large chain ring across to the largest rear cog, but all I hear is a quiet whirring as I keep my cadence constant, even increasing as the wind lessens while I'm going under the bridge. The light has a peculiar quality.. a sort of musty orange. Occasionally a light goes out and I'm left with my puny headlamp lighting my little island of tarmac ahead of me, barely the size of my bike. I have to cycle on trust, on instinct. No point in stopping or going back. A puncture out here would be annoying, in the cold windy air. I am aware of shapes in the corners of my eyes.
People wandering around. Some going to work. Some wandering. The sense of purity becomes poisoned by these shapes. There is an unease when they are there in the background, like ghosts. Once in the full light of the lamp-posts or the shop-windows their mystery is gone and the panic subsides. Guard, Driver, streetwalker, wanderer, cyclist.
I must appear the same to them, a silent apparition that is gone almost as quickly as they become aware of me. I silently cut through the air. The whirring noise, maybe I just feel it, judging by the faces as I float past on a carpet of air.
I am in a pool of black. Behind me the dim lights cast long shadows. Ahead complete
darkness. My headlamp does little to show the road, but acts like a beacon. I continue on, comforted by the whirring, my pedal-strokes and my breathing, rhythmic. My body is warmer but still my fingers suffer with numbness and cold. But the wind is dying down, drifting away, dissipating. As I turn around I see the black sky recede to dark blue as the horizon starts to lighten. There are bright stars and planets out, shining their last light as morning approaches.
I am going faster now, my breaths getting a little shorter. The whirring has turned into a hum and the chain, now seated correctly in a straight line over the cogs is turning smoothly. The brightening sky means I can look for the smoother patches of tarmac, avoid the bumps and imperfections in the road. At the Marginal point though, the smooth tarmac runs out and the humming has turned into a low rumble. The world is still in silence around me so the humming sounds loud to my ears, and the tremors in the bike make me sit up and take a turn out of the saddle, shift my weight about, unclench my hands. The high tyre pressure amplifies the road imperfections. I feel every microscopic dip and jag of the stones in the bituminous emulsion, and the rough patches where holes have been filled in. To my right I have the sea, silent and dark, but above the sky is turning lighter, dark blue to blue to the faintest wiff of warm orange.. almost like the lamp-posts, but instinctively I know it's warm. I turn my head towards the road. This section is rough. Soon enough the road juts up and I quicken my pace to carry my speed over the rise. More patches on the road.. the road almost made up of patches. I can hear the birds now, swarms chirping away in the trees. And slowly the cars awaken and fly past. The silence is broken. The darkness is broken. The perfect stillness of the morning night is over and my tired body steers the bike home, up the last uphill.
Photo courtesy of Miguel Duarte
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