Britain. Midwinter. England's rural south-east has been pared down to its barest and most atmospheric form. Many square miles of gently-swaying elm and oak and birch trees, all reduced to their skeletal structures, bereft of foliage save for a fleecy coating of moss.
Beneath the forest roof, etched into the ailing layer of seasonal undergrowth, a series of small country lanes catch the afternoon sun. The lanes roll playfully in amid the copse: skirting streams, traversing rivers and ridges, plunging in unison with the county's contours.
Upon the brow of one such ruck in the terrain, laboured breaths can be heard - and now the 'tick, tick, tick' of cogs gathering momentum, and the sound of spokes sluicing through the air with a resonating buzz.
The cyclist is flying. He is also smiling. Indeed the cyclist is currently supping at a strong cocktail of which three parts are freedom, two parts are speed and a part each of solitude and serenity finish the formula. It is truly a splendid beverage. One which we should all partake of on a regular basis.
With the prevailing wind at his back, the cyclist begins a brisk tack towards his home, flushing pheasants from threadbare thickets as he rides the breeze. Looking around he notes that how the sun - the last sun of the year - hangs heavy on the horizon. He looks at his watch. He hisses an expletive. The cyclist has mistimed his outing quite phenomenally. With only half and hour of sunlight remaining and 20 hilly miles to go, he curses his lack of forethought. No longer is our cyclist supping from a tall glass of freedom, speed, solitude and serenity - no, now our cyclist is taking large swigs of shite. With only an estimated five minutes worth of battery life in both front and back lights, the cyclist steps up the pace and wills the sun to stay put as he guns his steed north, north, north.
And then it happens - all in five devastating seconds. Firstly, the backlight ceases to assist any further with the journey, and then, just to add salt into this already gaping twat of a wound, it starts to rain. And this isn't a polite shower. This is a spiteful South-East Asian-style deluge which sees the cyclist sodden down to his bare bollocks in seconds.
No lights, busy main road, raining. A recipe for death, if there ever was one.
But our cyclist, he's a canny individual. After nearly losing his entire right buttock to a passing post office van, he guides his bicycle into a forest, and with the use of the front light - whose beam was also beginning to diminish - and, due to having watched a hell of a lot of Ray Mears videos on Youtube this year, he employs his survival skills and instincts and starts to beat a path home.
However, the cyclist soon discovers that carbon-fibre road bikes don't react particularly well with the fucking woods, and after several long and frustrating minutes of slipping, sliding and calling everything in his path a, and I quote here, 'a total kunt', he settles in for a filthy dirty slog through the wilderness, the rain showing no sign of let up.
And eventually, that night at home.
A nice warming bowl of red curry using the turkey leftovers.
Our cyclist needed that. And at least 10 cans of strong lager.
Happy New Year.