Months I'd waited for this opportunity. Months.
Cobalt-blue sky, barely perceptible NE wind, bone dry roads - and the rugby season over! Harpo, Mark R, Greg, Paul R, Chappers and I were the pacers, and we headed north to the hills. First up, Llangeinor, and we all stayed together (pretty much) with Mark R setting a stiff pace to soften the legs a bit. Greg feeling a bit rough, but soon back on. Bwlch next. I did my usual thing of hanging off the back before hitting the clocktower hill at Pricetown, and then used the group ahead to slingshot up and away like Simon Yates. I felt great - I stuck two fingers up to the virus that's been plaguing me all week, and was certain I was dishing out pain to the group behind (too cool to look back obv.) But just before leaving Nant-y-Moel, by mnemesis appeared. He may have looked like your average elderly, hard of thinking, overweight, visually impaired Sunday driver cruising aimlessly between garden centres in his pseudo-SUV, filling in time before a circulatory disease take him off the road for good. Indeed, I passed on those observations as he stopped in the middle of the road to engage in an altercation with another, similar driver going the other way. Both were equally critical of the other's limited spacial awareness. But I was wrong. He was actually a wizard, and he cursed me, using an incomprehensible spell of foul-language and violent gestures. There is no other explanation for my ensuing physical collapse.
The group I'd left for dead arrived just after the spell was cast, laughing at me sympathetically. I decided to get back to the business of ripping everyone's legs off. It took around 2 minutes to wheezingly change my mind as they cruised effortlessly past - still laughing. Harpo and Chappers climbing well is no surprise - Mark R had definitely brought his climbing legs out today, and Paul R brought his Liege-Bastogne-Liege form to the party.
We overlapped with the chasers, and Chris G joined us from the foot of the Bwlch onto the Rhigos. Harpo, Chappers and Mark headed off into the distance, Paul R and Chris G taking the middle ground, and Greg and I ambled and chatted, several minutes behind, as the spell continued to prevent my legs and lungs from working.
We re-grouped at the top, but at Hirwaun, Chris G and I headed south to the Cynon valley, leaving the pros to down then up towards Seven Sisters.
Bradleys for coffee in the sun and a chat, an I fantasized about a taxi ride home - properly cursed by now. The next best alternative happened, which was being towed home on the back roads by Chris, and having a good chat on the way (when I wasn't coughing).
I'm not sure how the others got on at Seven Sisters, so they'll have to write their own chapter.
Did I mention I was ill
?
I won't be poring over my Strava stats today, that's for sure.
Hope to join you next week if the spell has worn off.
