cycling - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The spokes of the wheel soon blur, each strand together and unique all at once. Summer sun feels as a hearth-side shawl, comforting, yet as I pedal onwards the breeze is as welcoming as sunset air. In that way, with steady sunlight warmth and wind to cool, my eyes are bathed in the passing scene, able to see the rich natural hues laid all the more bright by closeness to an open sky.
Chloe parked on the markers, waiting for the bicycle-lift to connect. She pulled herself to stand over the cross-bar, straightening her neck as she looked upward. Soon the glass cocoon would encase her, raise her high above the rooftops; how she loved watching the pastel houses, the trees who changed their clothes with the season and the people setting about each new day. As she rose above the solar panels, she recalled the ski-lifts of the Alps, momentarily swaddled in memories of Aiden, the two of them skiing over a brilliant fresh page from morning to sunset. With a soft beep and lighting change, Chloe returned to the present, it was time to ride out to the crest of the hill and carry on to work. With a kiss of fresh air she felt her wheels meet the road, legs on automatic, mind free to wander.
All the way along the rain-washed track had been the sound of loose mud beneath the tires, yet toward the end of the ride I heard a noise akin to music. At first I thought it must be some wood-chimes in the trees; a few seconds later I realized that the noise was not only traveling with me but was far too regular to be caused by the wind. A small laughed escaped my lips. Stuck between the wheel and the fork of the front suspension were soft autumn leaves, their stems striking the spokes as the wheel turned. I could have stopped and pulled them out of course, but I liked it. The sound was somewhere between pretty and spooky, perfect for late October.
My bicycle wheels turn over the wet track, my speed bringing the cold rain into my face harder than it would were I walking. My jacket gave up on keeping my body dry a while ago and now my trunk is as wet as my legs. On a rainy day like this there's just no point in heavy clothes, the only thing that'll keep me warm is my own movement, the pumping of my legs against the pedals. Head down, press on, thinking of the warmth at the other end. There's a part of me that's jealous of the car drivers, safe behind shatter-proof glass and painted steel. But then I recall my cyclist's mantra, "bikes burn fat and save money, cars burn money and save fat." After that I'm free to enjoy the rain, its part of life after all.
The lights of my bicycle shine as smudged stars, the wintry mist cold upon my skin. As the journey passes, sunlight rouses more colours from their sleepy monochrome and, though the road still has the black look of night, the sky is already more bluish than charcoal. Under the fumes of the morning traffic a tincture of the dawn lingers, like dew upon leaves, a gift of freshness bequeathed anew each day.
The front wheel coasted to the right and then kept biting at the soft mud. That was normal for after the rains. Sloppy mud was just fine, it meant more effort but it was more fun too. What she had to watch out for were the bogs, anything too soft or deep and the front wheel would sink right in, the bike would stop and it would be a slow-mo fall into icy mud.
One moment there was ground under my the wheels of my bicycle, dark ground yet to feel the kiss of the light of dawn, then there was water. Then, in a moment that felt so stretched... I sank beneath the cold surface, arms dragging along the bottom of the canal. I stood, the water waist deep. Then, to my surprise, what I heard was my own laughter. Apparently I found is so deeply funny to be standing in the canal completely soaked. I grabbed my bike and lifted it to the path, pulling myself out after it. Then I laughed again. Between the water, the mud and the laughter... it has become a favourite memory...