I have to ride about ½ hour to get out of the city then I’m riding through little towns, suburbs really, maneuvering my place on the road with semi-trailer trucks, taxi brousses, scooters, and motor bikes. There are some dirt road offshoots that I can explore. Muddy and deeply rutted paths. I’m saving those for when I’m brave or have time to get lost.

Most mornings, if I leave early enough, I greet the goat herder who allows his few animals to munch on the green grass lining our lane. Later in the day the goats will be replaced by street mothers asking for money, always in French.

Skinny cows pull their carts in belching traffic, sometimes the equally skinny farmer will hop out to guide them, whip in hand. Supplying the city of meat isn’t hidden in large regional packing houses, it is front and center of daily life.

Cycling in Antsirabe is not that different than Denver. I would dodge traffic and angry truck drivers there too. Though I reap new rewards here, all types of vendors line the road ranging from fresh vegetables and fruits to bicycle repair to used clothing.