Here Dragons Be Eaten

My dear ol' dad used to mock my cycling efforts, claiming, as a mere school boy, to have oft cycled over a hundred miles in a day.

Of course, I never thought to doubt this claim. He grew up in a quieter world, one far less polluted by traffic- horrendously modified exhausts, baseball caps askew, empty-eyed aggression- and would certainly have been able to journey upon infinitely safer roads.

All the same, I vowed to myself that I would, one day, be able to announce to him that I had finally cracked the century. Alas, that ship has since sailed; even should I one day achieve the saddle-sore goal of one hundred miles in a day, dad is no longer here to upwardly adjust his past. Such was one's fondness for anecdotal reminiscences that I must have wanted to believe.

Perfect from Alison Christine

But dad contracted polio at a young age. He would have spent much of his youth with somewhat limited capacity for such cycling exploits. My father always had a weaker right calf, causing him to limp with a slightly inwardly-adjusted foot. Hardly the gait of a long distance cyclist, one might think.

But then, one never can tell. Children can be remarkably resourceful creatures. His never-talked-about disadvantage certainly didn't prevent dad from walking many miles with his family. Now, with mother's memories fading fast, it seems unlikely that I'll ever be entirely certain.

Dad's cycling, whatever the mileage, would have taken place in a richer, more diverse and aesthetically pleasing world. One can barely contemplate the wildlife that he might have encountered upon his wanderings. But he wouldn't have noticed it, unless it had reared up and bit him. He was far more likely to have been enthralled by a passing aircraft.

My latest cycle pulled me coastwards, from the centre of Norwich. The sun fierce, dragging numerous Buzzards into the thermals. Just north of Swannington there was a pair of hunting Hobbies, plucking dragonflies from the summer air. But the highlight had to be the female Goshawk that I spotted from the rise, just north of Attlebridge; I say spotted, again it was really the alarm calls from mobbing Swallows that drew my attention. Always a bird to saviour, a Goshawk!

At one point, barely able to crawl, the cutest of Field Voles caused me to turn about and lift the little fellow on to the verge. Best not to ponder its chances, just to cross fingers and to wish it well. At least it was far too tiny to bother the Buzzards.

Ninety miles, dad! I'm creeping slowly upwards. I'll get there soon, but then I've been saying that for several years now. Still, just the ten more needed...

If maybe the weather should hold...

If perhaps I could ignore the wildlife I might yet just do it!