Battoowoo greekgreek

Norman seems very old to me. This fills me with exercisely hope. I stay on his wheel for the first half of the Killakee climb, unavoidably watching his scrawny elderly ass. There's a short low grade section on which he slows to recover. I ease past as the ascent kicks in again. 'No let up from here,' he warns levelly as I pull away. He's right about that shit, and yet it's doable, much more doable than last week. Is it easier or am I that much stronger? A bit of both perhaps, but maybe it's just not nearly as steep. I'm still new at this and have no head for the hardness of hills. 

He murders me on the descent. Of course. But again, I'm better than last week, a little more fluid, a little less tense, despite the large volume of Sunday driver traffic. 

Then we do what Norman calls a mini-Pyrenean. The Pyrenees are surely steeper. I can barely see the rise on this road, but it's there. And still there. And still there. On and on and on we climb on this barely there gradient. Five k in and it becomes something of a chore. 10 and it's a slog. 15 and I'm not quite weeping nor even tempted by the pain killer of my biggest back cog, (Gimme's 20 was as clean as a whistle) but still I'm somewhere new in the land of effort. It is now that the view truly exposes itself and one wonders why one would be arsed going to France when there's this kind of beauty an hours pedal sweep from the dirty old town. We're about 2k from the top when the land becomes barren and the heavens pick their moment to dump a whole fuck load of hail upon us. Hail, hail. This five minute downpour is enough to soak my under-clad body through. It clears and brightens as we start the descent, but it's too late. My fingers and toes are numb, my face is a mask of snot. I feel like a proper cyclist.

About 80k for the day, and progress made.