Scent of damp argil
chilly drifts of wind
drizzle.
I said goodbye, went home, left my bike in the warehouse.
I returned centuries later.
There it was; overturned, dusty and rusty, smiling at me.
And then I knew : The roving had been all wrong; all I had ever wanted was to keep on riding, on that afternoon, till the end of time.
In reality, I have never got back.