carry me out to the distant shores of the town, I’m riding seven or eight miles a day now. It’s good for the little chunk of planet air I was polutting, good for my torso. Had to be done, I fear the slide to podgery and Type 2 and I want to swerve the ring road traffic, the town is clogging as they pack more three-beds and flats into the gaps between the carriageways and petrol stations, tarmac over the golf course and the farmers’ fields. It’s only going one way. Off the roads I find tracks and hedge gaps, hidden routes for bikes and walkers. This environment was all set out long before I came along, I’m living in an old design, the new design always nibbling away at it. I begin to crave the clear spot in the sun, the stone house on the headland and bees in the wild thyme but how will I ever give Albion and the threat of podgery the slip? What engine can I make to splutter and fire and beat a pulse again?