Oh brave new world that has such people in it

Except these are not people.  They are an amoeba, they have no gravity, they are weightless, sylph, Ariel.  They pass you in a fraction of a second in a whirl of angel wheels. 
You can imagine footballers, rugby men and athletes going home to supper, sleeping in a bed, getting up in the morning and brushing their teeth. 
But I can only imagine these creatures floating up to the ceiling like helium balloons at the end of the day.
For years we've stood in the shade of trees on the edge of fields and felt the wind rush of the peloton. No tickets sold, no barriers erected; the side of the road is where the wild meets the contained cell of cyclists.
We cycle the 15km home down the old railway track on our hefty bikes.  I peddle with my toes because the saddle can't be lowered.  We have a couple of beers on the Place and wince as we get back up.
At home I wash the sweat and dust away then scrub the tidemark around the bath and feel like a clumsy but clean Caliban.