A hazy awakening to a sublime realisation that another whole day lay ahead that contained no agenda whatsoever made itself blissfully known to me, and after slow and giggly coffee drawn out breakfast it was time to register my ambitions for the day. It was inevitable that the idle rolling hours that lay ahead would of course come bicycle shaped and after hand picking one hundred and seventy four of my favourite tracks, I hit the perfect roads out of the valley. In my absent mindedness, I failed to register that the day outside wasn't quite of the spec that existed in my romantic imaginations as I set forth into an dripping wet morning against some interesting head winds. But today I had supplies, so there was no excuse to turn around. A crisp bottle of flat lemonade, some brown bananas and a selection of synthetically sweet cereal bars burnt holes in my drenched panniers as I screeched down the gravel ladened forest road through Vaudagne and past Servoz. The green hill inducing water coming from the sky didn't give over, but I was flying down perfect undulating hills in such satisfyingly unfamiliar territory and having far too much fun to consider how far away from home I was getting.
As I accidentally passed Passy, I thought I might as well carry on right down there to Sallanches where I was bound to find a warm place to have a coffee and read for a bit, but alternatively found myself circling the industrial estates, lost + alarmed to be away from my magical tree lined roads + immaculate surfaces, so I gave up and instead faced the long climb home.
The great thing about uphill alpine cycling in the winter however is that it proves to be the best and most satisfying way to get warm. Schlachthofbronx began to accompany me as my eyes grew wild at the moist and pulsating nature I was chugging past as I slowly came to conquer the long silver concrete snaked road that gradually became a moment in history, like a fading silver river of my past.