We trundle through a small village, then ascend a steep hill that takes usback into the velvet veil enshrouding the countryside."How much further?" I ...umble."Not long. A mile or two at the most." What do I call you?" Cunningham. It's an alias, of course." Of course."Wanker.A crossroads. A pub with a silly name, something to do with cricket. Anarrow lane that climbs between thickly wooded slopes, their tracklessfringes picked out by the headlights. We must be approaching the summit ofthe South. There were a few old established neighborhoods around town whose streets could be used for exercise. I knew where they were and the best times to ride through them. Anytime actually was good for the classy old neighborhoods, since traffic was always light there.There were also a few areas best left off the bicycle route. Those were some housing projects built in the seventies and eighties with government money. They were still subsidized for the poor. The towns more violent youth seemed to be. More

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