Saturday. The riverside and creek-side trails are bathed by warm sun. I haven’t cycled in a fortnight and my legs don’t want to. So I set off slow, and I stay sedate, and I take photos. Every local parent with cycling kids is out to enjoy the day as well, and I’m accommodating. A Coot squawks and on an empty football field the Willie Wagtail flits again. I steer round a bulldog, glancing back to confirm that yes, his owner looks like him. I nod at Droopy, the older man I always see going the opposite way, his long face impassive, impressed by his red-and-black lycra and his shoulder length curly tresses. The blazing carrot top of a speeding runner in black, under sun-drenched gums. Strollers with linked arms, lean identikit road racers, middle-aged riding couples with yellow see-me-don’t-kill me jackets, joggers so slow even I would blitz them . . . I see them all. Slow suits me fine, slow leaves me settled.