I quietly slip out of the house into the dark street. The saddle feels comfortable. I relish the ease of gliding along through the empty suburban streets, motor quietly whirring. Countless living rooms sit occupied, their owners idling away the young night around countless and ever-expanding televisions screens.
The path is empty. Mid-Autumn air is pleasantly cool on my skin, still t-shirt and shorts weather. I ride through icy pockets of air, pooling in the occasional hollow. The houses begin to fall away as the path gets darker. The rich smell of decaying forest matter replaces the odd dryness of suburban streets and smoky backyard fire pits. There is no light in sight. My light urgently, vainly tries to flood the darkness ahead, illuminating the unbroken path my bike pierces a second or two later.
The pathway returns to civilisation. It weaves its way along and past empty streets. A light ahead on the fence line! Two road cyclists slip past, the first nodding as they go. The path quickly returns to absolute darkness. I slip down, following the ghosts of colliery trucks a century ago, laden with coal and making the slow climb past me. A gust of warm air hits me, surprises me.
The decline tapers off. Ghostly eucalypts are replaced with peeling paperbarks, their overhanging branches laden with fingers of lichen. They appear stark and haunting in my little pool of light. This is the quiet stretch of track. Few houses, no chance of haphazard walkers. My legs are burning. I ease off and roll to a stop, suddenly aware of the cacophony of noise around me. A nearby bat colony feasts on goodness knows what. Frogs call out from all directions in the swamp that envelopes the track. It's the surround soundtrack to an Everglades scene. I take a photo of the stark path ahead.
I make the mistake of looking back at the path behind. It's enveloping, suffocating black. My rear light doesn't make the slightest dint in the darkness. I shake off a shiver and ride on.
Halfway point, exhale, a sigh of relief. I force myself to unclench the grips. I circle tightly and propel myself back into the swampy void, not bothering to stop. Back past familiar territory. My mind is more at ease. Any humans out here are as alien as me in this landscape. I enjoy the sensation of burning in my legs, the rhythmic whir, whir of pedals pushing against the motor, meeting resistance. I make a game of it, keeping just above the assist speed. It hurts, so I back off.
I switch my display off. Instant relief. I'm no longer fixated on metrics, no longer blinded by the glow of the screen. It feels good, pure. I listen to the bike and motor for cues on gear changes.
Then my light catches a rider gliding towards me. He has no lights, no reflectors, no helmet. I throw my light aside but he's already. He shields his eyes and rides past, head turned away. I wonder where he was going, where he came from. It occurs to me my arrival in his path was more startling to him than he to mine. I shake off the musing, but my mood has shifted. At night every stranger is viewed with suspicion. It feels like a hardwired response, painfully seared in over millenia.
I'm now climbing. Bit by bit the track advances up, the incline gentle but neverending. Another light. This one advances quickly. I see a silhouette in front of it - another rider. They're sitting on small motor bikes. The name peewee 50 flashes through my mind. Two teens cruise past, looking a little sheepish. Again, the balance of power instantly shifts in my head. They're caught riding motor bikes where such things are illegal. They quickly disappear behind me. I cut the motor and coast on, listening for the sound of their motors, gauging intent. They pass away into the distance. They're gone.
I reach the top of the hill. It's a long, weaving blast home from here. Slightly exhilarated I stand on the pedals, pushing the cadence into the triple digits. The motor assist gave up a long way ago. I feel superhuman. No, wait, a wave of nausea overwhelms me and I back down. Too fast, too hard. I suck in the cool night air. The path travels through a tunnel, sloping downhill for the final, long descent to suburbia. Somewhere above me sits an empty six lane highway.
I sweep off the path onto empty streets. I feel very alive. This ride can't end, not yet. There's another way home, slightly longer, past gaping empty drains and deserted, dark parks. I take it. A few minutes later I pull up back home, sore, very much alive, a little exhilarated.
Riding at night away from the familiarity of the urban landscape is just as much exercise for the mind as the body. The mind leaps to conclusions I'd never entertain during the day, plays tricks. It's a battle of wills to avoid being overwhelmed by it.
I'm thankful for the privilege of being male and the (sometimes illusionary) cloak of confidence that affords me in the night. I'm grateful for living in a town and country where such frivolous nocturnal pursuits are safe, with the assumption (again, sometimes illusionary) I'll return home in full ownership of body and bike. I'll keep doing these rides while the lockdown is in place. I
need my commute, I
need time on the bike. It recharges and energises me. It's elemental time: my body, my mind. And the comforting whir of my motor.
I was able to make the 50 miles, all on a single battery, a hot-dog, a half of sandwich and two bottles of water. Still, some battery charge was left. (Meaning I might do the imperial century on two batteries if I could stand such a long ride).
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