I ride through the spectral shadows in a slipstream of momentum, past the fishermen standing in faithful attendance at their shrine, the cold, cold river. The cormorants are gathered in congregation on the rocks, like worshippers, brave in the night and ready for silent meditation through the coming dark. The cold air is an enveloping enchantress, speaking her magic to my senses, and the lights rippling off the water are like jewels -red, violet and green- personalised offerings from the river to my speeding form and my curious eyes. By her generosity I am rich. The distant moon is comely and cordial, looking across the ageless expanse of crystal night in pale silence, like a regent or monarch. Dianna, the pulchritudinous monarch of the night is the ethereal visage that speaks to me now. I think of my friend on another continent, and feel a rush of inspiration. I slam my weight down on the crank shaft and soar to my highest cadence in overwhelming and breathless elation.
