I've shamelessly stolen this photo from Steve Turner. It's Saturday. Somewhere above Halifax. On a mellow group ride with mellow group people on a selection of really nice trails that aren't made from the Peak's characteristic selection of rock and rubble.
A ride marred only by some wizzened old bat of a dog walker who lectured us on riding footpaths on private land - 'it is you know' - when the council had made a perfectly nice concrete cycle path going roughly in the same direction 'specially for mountain bikers'.
In a better world we'd have fed her to her dog, but there are laws about that sort of thing and the RAC has a long and litigious reach. Besides, the dog seemed quite pleasant and vaguely embarassed by its rabid owner.
So it was a nice day. In a part of Calderdale with mostly good memories. But my head was still at a funny angle.
And today, which is Sunday, went for a proper, aimless meander on the Double Cross. Three hours of mostly riding up hills and breezing down them, except for that descent towards the Fox which was like riding a rigid steel bike with narrow, over inflated tyres down a series of bedrock steps covered with loose rubble with the sun in my eyes. So that wasn't really that much of a breeze at all.
And there were nice clouds in the late afternoon light above Hayfield. The same place the raggety moon was sat the other night, but no relation. I'm writing gibberish now. You can tell this isn't written on the assumption that anyone'll ever read it... Sleep.
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