Date: Tuesday
9th February 2010
Riders: Paul, Stephen, Colin, Greg and Martin.
Departed: 19.45
Arrived HQ: 22.15
Distance: 20 miles
Weather: Dry artic breeze.
OK. Concentrate. Breathe carefully.
Breathe smoothly. Breathe, deep. Up. Down. Up. Down. Keep turning
with
the rhythm. I can’t convince myself this is 12%. This must
be a 20 per-cent-per-minute-Zimbabwe-style-inflation-busting-lung-bursting-effort.
My acid muscles say so. So it is. The Gratton bridge climb never
gives time to warm to its task. 10 miles on the road you discover
the rhythm, 10 seconds from the ‘Park’ you have to
find it fast - or the lactic will eat you.
OK, reached the winter-bare
summit AOK, my last landmark of effort. Downhill to Cadover with
the latest Russian wind at your back. Left at the bridge. The
bare sores that eat away into Dartmoors’ heart approach.
Black – or rather - Red ice takes the back wheel, and others.
Damn those Russians. But the Bridleway around the sore pits is
beautiful. Talk of high Alpine holiday retreats and crunching
ice coalesces and makes me smile.
Descending. Fast. Here the
earth is scoured and gouged. A glacial torrent has flowed leaving
stranded erratics in my path. The smile is wiped and I am swallowed
by lateral moraine. Hard granite, mica flecks and tourmaline
scrape away my thin covering. Like the moor nearby, I bruise.
Descending. Fast. Smooth. Widetrack wonder to the tarmac hardtop.
Should have been the highlight. My granite-scratched confidence
blunts the edge.
More climbing, damn this Alpine landscape. Suddenly
shooting stars, but Wotters’ bolt was shot long before
we arrived. Desolate, no Swiss chalets here. Pass, quickly to
find the Cadover car park –Ice-cream-van-free-. Woodland
now. Perhaps there are hints of Spring down here. Water is running
free somewhere fast very close. OK concentrate. Ignore this spring
harbinger. A Harpy calling you over the edge, off the pipeline.
A stronger urge calls and I accelerate into the valley. Shaugh
Bridge. Yet we are hemmed down by Mountains. Rapid trigonometry
must mean this is Zimbabwe again. This is not Great. Zimbabwe
suddenly gives way to Dutch Polder, we are back on home-won ground.
OK. Concentrate. Breathe smoothly. Breathe carefully. Drink,
deep. Up. Down.
Reporter: The Routemeister
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