I didn‘t even think about stopping now. It would have to be hill repeats with all lights flashing. The climb by the cottage is a bit too steep for comfort. The climb by the cottage is a bit too busy in the day time. The climb by the cottage could be called the last hope, but it wasn‘t, I didn‘t need hope, I would finish this whatever it took.

Fifty metres of elevation at a time, scant, but a chip. I chipped again, again, again, hour upon hour upon hour. The fog started to drop so slowly that each climb was slightly different from the last. I lived in a time lapse slowed-down. Futility was gradually replaced by strength, then power, purpose, grit, the embracing of pain, a refusal to quit or surrender, body resigned to duty, mind resolute in purpose.

The girls stood on the bridge, above the road, next to our cottage, above dad, above husband. Kit streaked with sweat, haggard, bent to the bars in salute. I looked up and the tears streamed down both my cheeks. I smiled, the joy. I looked down at my bars and the count flickered ten thousand metres and I whispered words that only I shall ever know. I closed my eyes, slowly touched the brakes, swept the last corner, and rolled for home.

Click on the Strava link for Rob‘s epic ride.

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13 of the best from a year of limited adventure

Part 3 - Downhill to the Med

Part 2 - Les Grandes Alpes

Part 1

Finally!

Hell of the North East