A bike, a notebook.

Most weekends, I take the bike out with a vague direction and enough room in the day to change it. I like the little roads that follow drainage ditches, bridges that make everyone wait and cafés where you can watch a boat move slower than your coffee cools.

I write these notes later, usually at the kitchen table. The routes come back in pieces: a particular bend, the smell of wet grass, the wind changing sides. I put those pieces in the order I remember. A missed turn sometimes makes a better story than the intended ride.

Every distance here is rounded. Some loops include a bakery detour; others probably should have. Think of this as a friend's well-thumbed notebook, with room for the ordinary things a ride leaves behind. If a page persuades me to go out again next weekend, it has done its job.