I’m not sure why, but I have this notion that reading a very good novel is a lot like my ideal bike ride. I only feel the effort when I start out, until I hit a smooth rhythm, and then I become oblivious to the process, taking in all the pleasurable sensory details, pausing now and then to rest. There’s always the clear sense of a turning point, usually after a satisfying exertion, and then all I want to do is speed onward, with no desire to stop—not to reach the end, but to experience the pure enjoyment of moving fast.