Some idiot – or at least non-cyclist – decided in their wisdom that the best place for our local doctors’ surgery would be the village-on-a-hill, which enjoys the sort of location that is usually reserved for hilltop fortresses, or possibly windfarms. Whichever road you take, the only way to reach it is up, but for us the most direct route involves a particularly heart-breaking climb, the kind that employs every kind of mind game on the poor cyclist from false summits to the old ‘going-round-a-bend-and-suddenly-kicking-upwards’ trick.
It was a frosty and misty morning, and I had been glad to have my ice tyres on as I made my way through the river valley (especially when 50% of the traffic I saw this morning – i.e. one car – decided that the narrow stretch of road with a substantially icy verge would be the ideal spot to overtake me. Well done spotting I had ice tyres on at 40+ mph) but as I crossed the bridge and started the ascent, I definitely felt every one of their thousand grams* and I was glad I’d allowed extra time to cool down and get my heart rate back to something approaching normal before my appointment.
But when I emerged, I was pleased to see that the sun had almost – but not quite – burnt off the morning’s mist giving me a chance to capture the way it lay in the valley below
And then there was nothing for it but to set off, and enjoy the ride down.