Today I got on the bike too late in the day but not too late as to suffer too much. I was late out of bed, I ate breakfeast.
Lover wanted a pic nic but I had shared on Friday I wasn't interested. I had a long cycle planned for Sunday and I am sticking to it.
Up I went and realised as soon as I was saddled my front tire was devoid of air. I felt like a plonker, right in front of the appartment pumping air into my tire. Maybe it was a sign to stay home....
I cycled up hill, and as I went I noticed those purple trumpets, creeping over the fence almost herarlding my every effort.
I saw an old(er) man walking his bike uphill, he gave me his hat and it made my day.*
I went further up and further, and then down a step decline to go back up again. Superman on the worlds fastest road bicycle passed me and left me for dead.
I could swear he was doing at least 45-50 kph uphill, I was struggling with my steady 9.
Every kilometer that passed more trumpets sang to me, and white and yellow bursts of applause reached out to touch me as I went past.
It was a good cycle. I went farther than I have ever been up and up.
At some point looking out over the hills at Aspremont just before turning for Tourettes Levens, a phrase popped into my head. I belong here.
It has taken 6 years but I belong here. That phrase came back again and again. I thought how lucky I was to live in place, the hills, the scorching sun, the sea. This place where I have children and a lover. I thought of my neighbour who is an avid cyclist who might yet turn into more than a passing acquaintance. I thought of discussing with him how lucky I was to be here.
My spirt spoke and said no it's not luck. It's choice. I made my choices and now I should give myself my own hat.*...
I belong here. My sweat has seeped into the ground as have my tears. I belong here.
Later I noticed the trumpets had wilted in the midday heat, I too was wilted, at the end of my force, I tried my mantra I didn't believe it, I was too tired.
However, on this strange day of days, it's true to say, I belong here.
*[in french when you are congragulated, they tell you chapeau, or hat. It's like doffing the hat to you]
Imaginary Authors: Violet Disguise, Every Storm a Serenade, Saint Julep - Evocative biographical notes, labels of collaged imagery, Imaginary Authors builds stories fulfilled in perfume. They are casual yet glamorous, and each o...
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