A clock somewhere tick tock tick tocks. The low rumble of a parked car’s engine makes the air quiver and a streetlight leaks through the window and makes a trident of light on the ceiling. I lie on my futon and stare into the blackness. I can just make out the tin tiles above me and the far wall, some 20 meters away. To my left the grey bald carpet creeps into the blackened corner where the graffitied wall looms just out of sight. To my right a great pile of futons push against the plywood wall which creaks and groans in protest. My feet are engulfed in the black soup and when I wiggle my toes they feel as though they’re on the other side of the great room.
This is a rider house. A free roof for touring bikers and cyclists. Undoubtedly it often plays host to great groups of riders drinking and making merry and banishing the darkness with laughter and conversation, but tonight it hosts only me. I feel oddly at home, oddly comfortable. It feels just like being in my tent, only ginormous. I’ll sleep well.