Me and Hurley are sitting on the couch. "You know when Jamesy gets back?" He asks. I confess that I do not. He reaches for his phone and sends a text.
Hours later Jamesy still has not responded. We are beginning to wonder if something has happened. He was in Sydney for the Cyclocross, so there are perhaps three possibilities: he has gotten drunk and fallen asleep in a gutter in King's Cross; he is eternally trapped in a conversation about tyre pressure with Blakey and Nik Cee; or he has gotten drunk and fallen asleep in a gutter in King's Cross. Hurley is supposed to be picking him up from the airport. We don't know if he's flying back down or driving with the rest of the Melbourne contingent.
We're a little concerned, sure, but not enough to call anyone else, or stay at home waiting, or check Facebook. We go about the rest of our day without giving it much thought. The evening comes and we go our separate ways.
An entire day passes. Hurley is back in Shepparton and I'm riding my bike around town in the springtime sun. Eventually a text comes through from Jamesy. "Yo, I'm gonna be out till late. Do you wanna fill in for the blog," it says, "Soz, I totally forgot till now." It does not say where he has been, where he is, and if he is still either drunk or having the letters PSI tattooed on the back of his neck.
Photographic evidence that Jamesy, wherever he was, was riding his cyclocross bike this weekend. And was fucking stoked about it. Or was drunk. Probably drunk.