The Cycling Chronicles.

What do I have in common with Lance Armstrong? Greg LeMond? Peter Sagan? Nothing at all. Except that they are some of the best cyclists humankind has known and I might probably be one of the worst. Or let me just be modest and say, humankind might see me as a person who’s awkwardly seated,Continue reading “The Cycling Chronicles.”

The Rose.

“Ouch,” she uttered, pulling back her finger from the rose stem. A thorn had pricked her and a drop of blood lay on her finger, perfectly placed like it always belonged there. She smiled. “Got yourself another prick, did you now?” her husband asked, as he sat in the hall, immersed in the morning’s papersContinue reading “The Rose.”