P-B-P. The Founding Fathers ride out.

Well the PBP peleton of two rolled away from the Moulin Hotel around 8am and from the word go it was climb climb climb. Not a great start but a start nevertheless.
The weather held reasonable even though the roads were still wet from the previous nights rain. We chatted and ground our way up the first climb.
I won't ponder it too much as I will at a later date but my riding right now is pretty pathetic, I have no strength, I can't climb, I am irritated on all of my bikes, I'm not happy, like I said I won't ponder it too much as I am trying to work this shit out in my head. The big guy on the other hand is riding like a god these days, great to see in a humbling sort of way and long may it continue (his god like riding not my humbling)
Before long after many rolling climbs we were on the ascent proper and what a nice one it is too. Amid a swirling wind we reached the ski station at the crest of the pass, my head had collapsed and all I could think of was getting off the wretched hill which we did. With the mother of all tail winds we headed down. Very quickly I watched my computer read, 40, 50, 60, 65, 70, 75 then a wobbly 78kph, I had long ran out of spinability and watched Mark doing his damnedest to eek every last morsel of speed out his bike, which he did nudging 86kph. When the road eventually flattened out two things happened;
1. we were struck by how big the smiles were on our faces, frozen on by velocity and;
2. how smooth the road seemed at that speed.
Braemar quickly appeared and coffee and cake quickly disappeared, we rolled back out to climb what we had just came down.
It was bad, from the out the headwind was brutal and that was before we were on the climb. We ground it out, I suffered like a pig but somehow made it to the top, the wind by this point was horrid as was the descent that followed. Ears raged with howling wind, thighs struggled to turn the big gear and all to soon what should have been a joyous downhill was over, the blood raged around my head as we got down to the task of working back to Kirkmichael for the last climb of the day.
After what felt like an age the turn off of the A93 was made and we were back on home tarmac, our early chatter and excitement had turned more to a speak when spoken to silence. Thoughts turned to a pint at the Moulin Hotel and this took over all other thoughts giving the inspiration to make it home. The road rolled, the head wind died a little and we slowly wound our way into ever increasing familiarity.
With the sight of the tree lined road leading to Moulin and Mark sitting up, I had the audacity to take the 30 sign, sad but true.
Pints were had, partners arrived to mock and a smile slowly crept back onto my face.
I want to say I enjoyed it.


God like riding from Mark.