takes you up from the Cherwell and behind the clipped lawns of Summer Fields, between wire, boards and bushes before the track throws you out in the streets of 30s houses. Eyes eastwards and it’s all fields out to Headington Hill and the escape road to London, skimming over the plain to the Chilterns. For a few years I’ve thought I’d like to get away more with work and research but I’m not sure now, I’ve discovered on recent forays that I’ve lost interest in decoding the intrigues and veiled motives of strangers, making sense of what people really want from you as they sell, pitch and posture. It’s not that I’m above it, I was just never good at it and can’t pretend I want to be. And the deal so rarely comes good. I am my own, local oddity, I accept it. I take my pleasure in the Swobo Sanchez running silent down the alleyways, the new bars, my legs getting stronger as I bike more. There I go.