Today we walked around in the forest that provides the covering for the underground A14 motorway. The locals sped past us on their mountain bikes or in their running shoes, looking serious and intense. They had that look about them that people dressed in Lycra have (some of my walking companions were also wearing it but weren’t looking so intense) when they don’t work in the entertainment industry but feel justified in wearing tight body-hugging fabric in public. Or perhaps I’m just imagining it all. There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with consenting adults wearing Lycra after all.
After half an hour or so of walking I realised that I have been remiss about writing and taking pictures lately so I half-heartedly snapped some trees and the elusive sun.
I’m not entirely dissatisfied with the result of this apathetic effort. The sunburst is like an alien space ship’s tractor beam searching for Lycra-wearing cyclists or runners to abduct.
You will be relieved to know that I am safe from the space aliens. I don’t wear Lycra.