Fuzzy felt cones, perfect triangles. How I would have drawn a mountain as a kid. Ancient volcano cores, rock millions of years old. This year of rides is nothing but a blink, a flash in comparison. Sun beats, kites soar, lizards scamper. Sixteen hundred metres. Bright red Coca-cola parasols fold inside out in the wind. Coffee and coke with ice. More biscuits from the musette. Plunging off the edge of the world my brakes squeal into a steep hairpin, flinging me onto a dead straight kilometre. Freehub starts to hum, dab of brake, lean into a bend, road snakes away into cool verdant forest. The straightest line through the curves… finger hovers over a brake lever, just in case… a slight rise and pop out into the open. A thin line of tarmac etched along the edge of a long shallow glacial valley. Imaginary helicopter tracking me, solo breakaway. Nestle in the drops, tarmac tilts downwards ever so slightly as far as the eye can see. A joyous descent. A dark ridge seventy kilometres yonder. That’s my finish line, home sits 500 metres below the other side. Tuck a little lower, click down a cog, push a bit harder on the pedals.