I swallow heavily, the allure is there, the mischievous banter has long subsided. Talk is no longer cheap, to stay in the hand, requires commitment and it is made, with abandon, nervously, begrudgingly, full knowing once made there is no reneging.
But let me play that hand for just a while so as to convince the soul and the body of the possibility.
Time triggers the need to prove the lie or realise the truth. 90 days is all that stand between the greatest challenge and the best the challenger can be. Targets are set in times and in sum but how much is enough before the mind will cry enough?
The stare in the mirror is not familiar, what are its origins, where does it hide? But there is a need to prove the limits of the character, to expand the deeds to the incomprehensible of not so long past.
After all, it’s just a bike and few hills (perhaps mountains more correctly), but will they force me from the bike? For if not, the day is mine to choose the pace, and not a soul can decide except for me.