ride - gresford_& maitland

Never has a grocery run been so enjoyable.  In rainy weather,  young Charlie and i took up our mounts and headed away from the shops to visit Mia who was instructing at a pony club event.  We parked up by some wonderfully ageing rural snowbound pavilions,  we watched girls no bigger than dots bouncing along on stunted ponies.  
Going back to town,  assailed by showers and the smells of decaying vegetative matter or trees in bloom,  we dodged potholes,  enchanted by old British exhaust notes.
Shopping with helmets,  like social aliens, we carried out mundane tasks within motorcycling constraints; our luggage carrying capacity was severely limited.  
Coming home bulging with supplies,  the the news that the world's glaciers have been given their death notices,  we pull in for fuel parking beside a news 350 in military trim. The owner spoke enthusiastically of this bike, and an array of others. I wanted to boast that this modest beast was my primary mode of conscious transport,  besides a fleet of used pushbikes, but remained silent in my mourning.    
At home i ordered racks and panniers, from India and pondered the need for petrol rationing

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