There come a point when it were just the sound of yr bones grinding together. A song repeating in your head. Crunch of gravel. I can taste the last cig I smoked from 5 years ago.
They, that group ahead of us. One lagging a bit and then, head down pulling back in tight to the tail of it. All grey jackets. A bit of shine and dirt, and then a blur.
Top of the hill. man, what a slog. And they're having their bite. No laughing now. Tall one holds a hand up and says the sun's going down. Three fingers is a hour at most.
I grew up in the country and never heard such as that, but it makes sense. We measuring all things.
Call goes up and then down and down.
We try to hang on but the legs wont move. Hungry. out of water. Chattering. Pedal squares to a cross and look about. It would seem that left is the way back, recognizing this from hours before.
A little nervous for one's safety. Them hills are treacherous in the day and it's just dusking. Little ribbons of red out over the west. Maybe 40 degrees and falling.
We know to be better prepared than this, but it was a long night and morning gets away from us.
I don't have to tell you how it ends because I'm here telling.