We’ve all got at least one, haven’t we? That little unbreakable habit. Or perhaps a certain compulsion that overcomes, given the right circumstance. Nothing can prevent it. Like iron filings in the grip of a magnetic field. There is no other option. It becomes the default state.
What’s mine? It’s anything that’s high. Impossible to resist. This top end of Lake Garda is surrounded by high. Mrs S notices I’ve come over all twitchy. Gives me the nod. I can go ‘ride-about’. Decide to tackle this near part of Monte Baldo that towers over much of the eastern shoreline. Follow the ‘Piste Ciclabili’ sign. Head up towards Battaglia di Malga Zurez – part of the WWI Austro-Hungarian defensive line cut into the rocks. After forty minutes no sign of a flat bit. I remove a layer. All zigs and zags. Nothing less than a 15% incline. Take a photo. 
Thirty minutes later and I’m still zig-zagging the zig-zags. A couple of walkers spring out up ahead. Is it my imagination or are they going faster than me? I put on a spurt. Nonchalantly overtake them as if I’m out for my usual Sunday st-roll. Suddenly realise I have to maintain this speed for fear of them overtaking me!
At this point I start to question my sanity. Or maybe lose it? Still no sign of a flat bit. Do I give up? Can’t. Imagine I’m leading The Tour peloton. But wait. As I’m on my own perhaps I’m trailing it. Need to rethink. My OCD kicks in. Finds the key. Got it. It’s the red polka dot top I’m after. (not to be confused with its itsy bitsy yellow counterpart – that was a different Brian – and wouldn’t suit me) My legs no longer my own. Become two self-operating clockwork automatons. I’m sure I’ll enjoy this ride at some point. Like at the top – maybe.
I wonder if this shrine was placed on-route to give a heavenly push . . .
Then I wonder if this is how a bike riding sinner spends eternity – on an infinite incline like this? With no more easy gears left I start to despair of ever seeing the Flamme Rouge. Am I that much of a sinner? In fact the only thing that’s rouge around here is my face. You could poach an egg on my forehead.
At each hairpin I think ‘Is this the one’. Then it is! I’m OTT. A short way past this sign it’s flat. I turn around. Perform a polka dotted imaginary strut. King of the Mountain.
Curiously, underneath this sign is a small ‘No Entry’ plaque. Forbids cyclists to ride along the very narrow ledge on the right, that tops a sheer drop. It goes into part of the old look-out post that was built into the mountain. How crazy. What cyclist in his right mind would want to go there? Down is never an option . . .
Well, if you want some lunch it is. Twenty six minutes later I’m refueling. Mrs S gets the urge to go ‘up’ too – but by foot. We take the Busatte – Tempesta trail. Brings us stunning views of the lake and opposing mountains.
On our way down we stop off at the Busatte Adventure Park cafe. Hope to get a cup of tea and a slice of something. Problem is Polly’s escaped. Not interested in putting the kettle on. Left Percy in the lurch on his perch. She won’t be coaxed. We make do with water . . .
As if that wasn’t enough exercise, we’ve discovered a decent table-tennis table. That rounds the day off nicely.
Lullabies not required tonight . . .