What way is this, Heft o'er hugging hills? Who thought to place you here Far above the comfort of rambling valley lane - Lost amidst the chilling mists?
Why do I seek your gravelly way, Stretching through the contoured clarts? Where wheels slide and slip Through leaf-strewn mire While aching limbs burn and tire.
Where others pause or turn the heel The randonneur will grip the bar and turn the wheel. There are no easy answers here, Only the hard winds blown over the timeless moors - The fading light and driving rain Will be the wheelers close companion Until, like the frosted morn, Needs must return again.
