I like taking photographs when I ride. Snaps. Insta-memories. Distraction, interaction, reflection. 

Old pictures now carry a weight that I never expected when I took them. It's easy to make the photograph the memory. They don't capture the temperature, the mood, the argument 10 minutes beforehand or the smiles 10 minutes after. Still, I treasure each one, and try to take them as often as possible. Mundanities become records and marks in the ground. A way of tracing time more creatively than simply crossing out days on a calendar. Counting forward, rather than counting down to something that I know not. 

I didn't even take my phone out of my bag today. Ride, talk, smile. Look at the view. One that is so familiar, and I have shared with family, friends and Jenn. One which is as much part of me as any other. If landscape can be part of our DNA, then these steep sided valleys are my double-helix. 

Ironically, I think my first instagram photos are of a winter's day on these fells. Post-industrial packhorse trails covered in boiler plate ice. Today we ride them side-by-side, a combination of sweat and humid mist clinging to our skin.

Windmills slice through cloud lackadaisically. One of "those" trails. I'm sure there used to be trail there before. Now nettles and undergrowth conceal holes. Flowing singletrack, intertwined doubletrack. Paths overlapping and diverging. Lifetimes converging and parting. 

Words paint a thousand pictures. Or something like that. 

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