Every weekend he rode miles up and down the Great Ocean Road.

A flask of water clipped to his bike frame.

His helmet bopping with regular breaths.

Now he sits in a brown leather chair, working the leather at his side, searching for the right elevation.

The perfect tipping point for a glass of beer on the tv's horizon.

Sometimes it's hard to draw the dots between the years.

The points seem out of alignment and although you look for logic in the harlequin patterns.

There's nothing there but a dark tunnel with only the palest stream of light hissing in the distance.