by Old Bone Machine
To Healesville and back. I rode 100 kilometres and climbed 1,800 metres. Yet numbers cannot express an experience. That my legs were light. The red soil of the farms and the stench of fertiliser in my throat. The big hill. Descending with fear but not touching the brakes. The rush. The rough and broken roads. Smooth tar, like scar tissue. Beating the farmer on his tractor. A dog’s bark. The weariness in my arms. The dream quality of it all. Near home, the forest and the tallest gum trees. My home. Of time standing still. And of time moving quickly. That my legs were light.
I write to remember. To hold some of it in my hands.