I'm posting this not because it's a great example of line and colour (and it's certainly not a prime piece of metrical writing) but simply because it reminds me that often a sketchbook is nothing more than a diary. This page brought back some warm memories of holidaying in the Dordogne with friends, sketchbooks and bikes.
Everyone else had to make do with their own machine, but I was lucky enough to find a Sprick in the shed at the gîte. Soviet made (or so I like to think), the Sprick was the last word in uncontrolled speed, inner-ear-rattling aerodynamics and here-I-come squeakiness. Seeing me rounding a corner on the valley road to Gavaudun must have been like 'being there' at an historic Tour de France in the early 1950s as Britain came last. But I didn't care -- I had the wind in my hair, rust on my ankles and stomach full of chips and rosé from the Café des Sports. And I didn't touch the brakes once.