As you read this it is likely that I am cycling. I have strapped my belongings, the accumulation of too many years in London, onto a ornate frame that will carry me between forest and fields, over hills and mountains, through desert, and beside vast oceans. I am cycling away. Across my handlebars I have a little string of charms. There is a compass to help me find my way, a tarnished clock that has become redundant, as now I tell the time by the way my shadow is cast on the road. There is a small Harmonica, for emergencies, if I ever find myself without music, and a little silver feather, which I hope will make the bike fly along the road.
When I meet you, forgive the state that I am in, covered in dirt and tan, eye lines radiating from smiling into the sunshine, and no doubt smelling stongly from the the last hill to a beautiful view. I apologise in advance if when I shake your hand it is covered in bike grease. until then.
Peter.