Usually I pace myself on this route, not because it’s particularly dangerous but because Alice is behind me and I try to lead by example. Today I freewheel down the shallow hill, legs sticking out on either side of the pedals, hair free of my helmet and combed out by the wind. The level Suffolk countryside has been stripped of leaves and the bare branches make it seem flatter and more endless than ever. This road stretches as far as the eye can see and the temptation is to keep pedaling over the horizon and never stop. I know people who did that. Nina did it all the time. Why shouldn’t I? If I go, Rex and Alice will still have each other. I know I won’t do it, not really. It’s just a weird compulsion—the same crazy instinct that makes you want to leap off a cliff when you stand on its edge. The road forks in front of me and muscle memory or duty or both of these things turns the handlebars left. This curve I take with my eyes closed, knowing the road well enough to take this little risk.
