Riding that bike was my physical poetry, my ode to living written by those great turning wheels upon the earth.
I could ride my bike outdoors for hours, as if that fresh country air had a way of releasing energy reserves I never knew I had. I imagined it within me as an extra energy store only for use in the case of necessary fun.
Riding a bike was freedom to me. It was my way to gallop, to move quickly through the kaleidoscope of seasons.
On those wintry days her gloves were such a blessing for riding her iron-horse over the bridleways. Warm hands made all the difference.
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