There is a natural affinity between the cyclist, a mutual agreement where one stays within their own boundaries of function; the heat factor thus, luckily enough spares the set and the rise...
And just like the sun, the thorns are a constant companion, to arms, feet, fingers and the unlucky tubes...
The downhills are a the novice's Catch-22: pedal you topple, brake thee skids, after falling over a couple, rolling over the third is the dawn's triumph, the topple afterwards a mere punctuation...
A camel behind one's back is never a comfortable feeling, the livid face though kills the fear as one looks at the rather amused trotting giant...
It a rare experience to ride through the Aravallis, the slimes and the liners scoffed away by the summer dry keekar, pump to pry set the wheel, only to let the air slip out of the other tyre...
One does wonder if this is all an adult excuse though, for the kids frolic regardless, the bright yellow sheet o' arid just another challenge to conquer Sunday morning...