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Bridge Over the Rhye

The problem with glimpsing genuine freedom, as I have these past three years of bicycle touring, is the winters working the corporate sphere to fund the extravagance drive me depressingly close to suicide. 
I find myself gazing at the countryside from commuter train windows, the book in my lap open but unread. The promise of heading out in the saddle again occupies every waking moment, the dangled novelty of daily adventure usurping this trivial subsistence of civilized men. I'm not the same as you people any more. My time is now more valuable than mere currency. It needs to be spent exploring as much as I can before I die.

This year should be different, though. To supplement my usual savings, I'll have a little income from the sales of Wanderer. Warrior. Chronicler. Twit. to fund me further. So I'll be able, should my marketing efforts bear sufficient fruit, to winter on the road.
I completely understand if readers find themselves growing resentful over this. Nobody shou…

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