Tights

Last July, just crossed the line, head a blur. It’s unusually hot in Belgium, even for summer, touching thirty-eight degrees. Pull those legs down there, I think they are still attached and working, covered in dust – stuck to sweat, over the saddle. Lean the bike against the wall, disregard shown for the machine that has safely transported you all those kms, through the mêlée, the mayhem. Searching for a bottle of water, a chair to sit... Read More