I write up the day in front of a small fire. Just a little fire to warm me, to fill my clothes and tent with smoke smell. I spill red wine in the dark. I sketch a giant cyclist in the style of the Machines of Nantes.
Though I can’t see the ocean, I hear it close, beyond the dunes. Looking at my map in the unsteady light, I have made only a little progress, winding around inlets and peninsulas to make up 112km. My body really aches today, as I fight cold and headwind. It wasn’t all like that. After calling my mother to wish her a happy birthday, I set off to finde the sky clear, and the wind, if not directly behind me, helping me along occasionally. This would change during the day. I rejoice in following the coast line before I see the map and realise the extra work that i am making for myself. The smell of salt and sea weed makes it worth while, as I rush along.
I join a pack of lycrists for an hour, and together rush through seaside towns, mostly boarded up and dormant, waiting for summer proper to begin. I peel off to take cider and buy the nights ingredients, then continue on alone again, to set up my tent amongst beach pine forest near Turbaul.
