Today took us from Wolverhampton to the sleepier climes of Shropshire, surfing along a busy A-road. I use the term 'surfing' deliberately, because that's exactly what it felt like today cycling in the rain. . .
. . .you're peddling along at a regular pace, not too slow, not too fast, bobbing along on the side of the road as cars slide past - a Fiesta, an Almera, you barely notice them pass by. A light coat of drizzle hits your face and trickles down your neck, but you brush it off without a thought. Occasionally you hear a dull thud and glance over your shoulder, but it's only a white van, nothing worth pursuing.
Then you start to hear something in the distance - a deep rumbling, the dull crunch of rubber on tarmac and the clank of buckles on canvas - and your pulse starts to quicken, you start to peddle faster to match your racing heartbeats; it's coming, this is the big one.
Faster and faster you peddle, trying to match your wheel-spin to that of the juggernaut coming your way. You'll never match it, but you will always try, and as it rushes past you feel the wind buffeting you along, the spray from those monstrous wheels hits you in the face and arms and you're riding in its terrifying and exhilarating wake. It's not over yet; even on this black sea all waves see double and there is always a frustrated Clio, or an impatient Yaris, sailing just inches behind, buoyed up by the feeling of being behind the big boy.
Then they're gone, and you're left peddling limply on the side of the road, feeling the strain in your knees now that the adrenaline has worn off. But chin up, the surf's always up on Britain's A-roads and you can always come back for another ride.
EDIT: I'd like to say thanks to the amateur phenologists we met in Shropshire, who make recordings for Nature's Calendar, and especially to Diana who put us up for the night when we had nowhere to go!
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