The happy babble from the stoker’s seat reminded me that I was decidedly not solo on this particular climb. Whatever minuscule quota of lung-sucking-quads-on-fire-No-Talking time I was allocated had apparently expired. On the steepest part of the corner I interrupted her.
I was, once again, in full survival mode with even worse pavement than Route 12, and with just as little shade as on my journey the Sierra Nevada in ’84. Different geographies. Different decades. Same place.
A new bike will cure almost all afflictions; especially useful in the treatment of ague, melancholy, bad humours of the blood and troubled relationships. The treatment is a bit more expensive than the venerable practice of bloodletting but with less mess and similar efficacy.
I heard little else that night over the recriminations raging in my head. All I had to do was stop! – get off the bike and walk all of us through. Grampa had never cycled through a tunnel before.