A tree lined lane, branches interleaved to create a dark tunnel of winter bare stems. A flash of white as an owl passes silently overhead.  The moon shines through a gap in the branches, illuminating daffodil stalks glowing ghostly white. I stop to pick some although I feel uneasy about flower picking under a winter moon. Celtic superstition stirs. 

I have stopped registering my rides as DIY audaxes. It seems pointless – but then the whole concept of riding all day to reach an arbitrary distance target seems increasingly pointless and I cannot explain to anyone why I do it, why I need to do it. 

Each ride has now become a half remembered song, a memory stored up for when I cant do this anymore. The end of the ride; an electron trace on a screen, some numbers. Now I can stand up straight, lean back, muscles cracking, bones weary, pushing the bike across the lawn, drawn to the lit windows of home.