My cycle commute is a quiet, flat 30 minutes against the traffic.
I tend to pass the same riders every day, all heading into town.
I pass Karl, who I waved and smiled at for years before finally bumping into in a bike shop. We chatted for ages and now, knowing more about each other, exchange the odd shout as we pass.
There's the big South-African dude who shouts "Morning" loudly every day. He's a lycra type and looks like he spends a lot of time on his bike.
There's a friendly chap with a beard who I tend to pass nearer to the start of my commute. He's casual clothes and hybrid bike.
There are two old-timers, one on a fixed gear race bike and the other on a Dawes Galaxy with panniers (he pedals the biggest gear on thr bike all the time). I've chatted once or twice to the Galaxy man. He's even tagged on the back of my club training ride one night when he was especially late coming home from work and in need of a draft.
There's the grumpy man with the yellow bike who has NEVER acknowledged me in 6 years of nodding and waving. I'm not giving up.
And now there's the incredible shrinking man. I don't think he'd be desperately offended to be told that he looked a tiny bit comical when he first passed me. He was on a racer, wearing lycra and he was a little bit chubby. Actually he was a lot chubby. But now we've been nodding and waving to each other for, I guess, six months, he's rapidly disappearing. I barely recognise him. He looks leaner and faster and more pleased with himself each week, and my nods and waves get more enthusiastic in proportion.
So those are my commute friends. I only know the name of one of them but they're my friends anyway.