A Winter's Bike Ride

Cycling home from Colin's house on a February afternoon back in ’85. Wet leaves along the narrow lanes, naked hedgrows high, a chilly wind from Dartmoor, a smell of snow in the air. Fingers raw. Crows caw under a crimson sky as the distant bells of St Petroc's ring out. A tractor passes by. A smell of manure. Wellies thick with mud. Socks wet.

Along the lanes of South Brent on my BMX, brakes squealing. Scarf up to my nose. Parker hood up.
 
My clothes and hair thick with woodsmoke, we'd made a fire at the end of Colin's field. Icy drizzle now. The smell of fish and chips on Station Rd, the sound of a deep fat fryer.

Through the village and past my school, not a car in sight on Exeter Road, just the bus to Plymouth, all the windows steamed up. Someone somewhere is burning old tyres. The Corona lorry passes me by. No lights on my bike but they're on at the police station. Pedalling faster now. Into the estate, a smell of roast dinner. A thumbs up from Richard’s brother in his red Cortina.
 
Past Scott's house, they’ve got the telly on. Down the hill, braking hard, and home at last. Dad is in the garage fixing the old Rover again. Kicking off wet wellies at the door. Warmth. Grandstand is on, final score. “Albion won” says Mum, “Give Grandad a call later.” She smells my hair. Time for a bath. Vosene. Matey. The sound of a dripping tap. A Stormtrooper and Matchbox car covered in foam. Head under the water. My world is silent for a few seconds.
 
Out. A thick cotton towel. Pajamas. Dressing gown. Downstairs to the phone. Extractor fan on. “Tenby 2392” says the voice on the other end. “Oh Hi Grandad, Albion won!” Mum smiles. Roast chicken for dinner. Dad washes the oil from his hands. “I think it might snow”, he says.
 
And that night, it fell thick and fast. The next day, we sledged until it was dark.
There was more than just snow in the air, there was magic. You could really smell it.