Cross Country
It was the kind you'd use for long distance travel. Thick wheels set close together on a sturdy frame and a seat perched high, level with the steering frame which went down and curved at the sides like a ram's horns. You gripped the vertical handles and squeezed the brakes, the triggers. On a sharp decline it felt like straddling an arrow. Perfectly aimed and threaded into a gust of wind. A dry schooner with no propulsion but the strength of your legs and the curvature of the road. The long road. Her coach used to call them "Long Winders" as a joke. The kind of person whose discipline was performing a single activity, usually basic, for vast quantities of time. Much longer indeed than what any sane person would think reasonable. Marathon cyclists, runners, swimmers. They'd often have the same sort of sandblasted features to their faces. The winnowed brow and squinted eyelids and sun-soaked, leathery texture to the face. It's how you might tell them apart when ...