Touring, none of them are, even if fondness for rewoven recompositions makes for wishing it to be so, even if the delight and embrace makes it okay afterward to say. And, really, merely familiar terrain isn’t either sufficient, since accustomed scenery or unremarkable town names can sometimes still be conceptualized descriptive abstracta, where riding there all the time only means that one could readily recite impressively accurate directions. Home roads are instead ones where hills stop looking like photographs and have been transformed into volumes of gulped breath, coiled effortful measure, where unthought primed expectation leaps up out of the saddle just before body does, where the arcs of a descent and then sand patch sizzle and then frostheave crack to smooth occur in a sequence that isn’t accepted but just is, nor could or would anything be said specifically about it. Home roads are more mood than map, less direction than innate want for motion. They are when that ride has been done so many times for so many reasons, therapy in the repetition, that reasons aren’t the right way to understand the why anymore. And home roads aren’t in a place, any more than serene quiet in oneself is somehow localized somewhere.
Just like some mantras, some poems, some things said to people cared about, just as they sing you when you sing them, home roads pedal themselves.