The sky is textured with peaks and valleys, gradients of gray billow across the sky. Still as mountains. No wind, no drama, or rather, stillness as drama. The backdrop for the crowd of sixty astride bikes on the grass. Most look at the ground, some stare straight ahead, everyone tries not to think of the off-camber road ahead, now is a time to think of the fallen of the past. Glancing at the still gray cliffs in the sky I duck my head and pull my shoulders up to my ears, reflexively trying to avoid a cranial collision with the low hanging weather.
Patience is really hardThe zipper sound of something sliding through wet grass. I glance up from the grass through lashes to catch the tail end of a smile on the face of the rider in front of me. Another zipper and he shifts weight and turns to face the people in matching blue jackets at the front.
The buttoned up blue sport coat is well pressed. Deep lines etch across his broad angular face. His bushy eyebrows and ears distract from his bald head. His pupils are dilated and his deep blue cornea lock onto mine, then flicker about my bike. He nods. I nod as well, another reflex. Behind his head, amongst the low ceiling of the clouds, the stillness is disturbed. A flurry of movement above his bald crown, whirls up the side of the cirrus mountain in the sky. I lose track of the whirling cloud dervish as it disappears behind a billowing outcropping. Cowbells erupt and the crowd of bikes in the field surge forward with great haste. I hurry to mount my bike as I'm swept up in the stampede.