It can seem a limitation, an upper bound to the horizon, what with having to travel on roads, the shadows and exhaust clouds of the earth movers that paved the way, the technology and commerce that made it possible, the government that funded the construction present and looming over one’s pedal strokes and reminding you that you are not the first one there, far, far, from it.  Or the road is dirt, or the double track is a scar from engine power technology. Even on singletrack, the paths left by villagers or their goats or lost in time memories of walkers, their voices are still there, you are visiting our place, maybe it’s a welcome and so often it’s a joy, but you are far from first, they say.

So on the bicycle it is always a repetition, the repetition of human travel over the same surfaces, so the adventure can’t come from novelty or uniqueness.  It must come from something else. A certain foolish hubris in thinking about it, and, in a way, the wrong circumstance of mind since the compelling moments are earned on another front, the collision of place and fatigue and promise.