“How long are we on this stretch for?” – “About 24K” – “Oh, OK, should be fun”.
We thought we’d seen off the last of the snow. Turned our backs on it for at least another seven or eight months. Forward looking thoughts of warmer climes cloud our minds as we leave today’s site. We pass by a red circular warning circle. Beastie shouldn’t go this way. He’s too big and heavy. We’ve learned that signs like this one tend to err on the cautious. We reckon we’ve got at least half a ton to spare. Beastie’s been, and been seen, on many a worse road than this. Why – it’s even got tarmac on it. Should be a cinch. (providing it stays tarmac)
5K into the climb and we’re averaging 14.76mph and 9.84mpg (to be precise). It’s steep. It’s so steep I can feel the blood rushing to my brain. Realisation kicks in. Ah, so that’s why Beastie shouldn’t be here. Nothing to do with the road per se.
A little further on we’re going about as fast as a roller coaster when it’s being tugged mind-numbingly slowly upwards. Aims and labours to reach its very highest point. Deliberately so. To rack the tension a little higher, and, just before it kicks off at an almost unbelievable vertical angle downwards, it comes to the minutest of halts. A spec of time – suspended by it’s own minuteness. Nothing to prevent it staying exactly where it is – except for the distance that stands between it and the gravitational pull of the earth several hundred feet below. Then the law of Quantum Time takes over. The most minuscule becomes massive. Offers breathing space to consider “Was this the right decision?”or “Can I have my money back – please?” Its occupants with time to spare, even after saying ten Hail Mary’s and five Our Fathers. Then just as they’re trying to remember where they put their Will & Testam – WHOOSH . . . . . . !
Beastie stays in second gear. He knows what’s good for him. He’s got serious bends to contend with too. His speed drops down to less than walking pace. The outside temperature to -1C. Inside it’s warming up and gone unusually quiet. Not much conversation passes across the divide. No Beastie Bravado beckons forth. I’m gripping the steering wheel like Iron Man. Mrs S is being a good Catholic. A severe hairpin looms. One of those that comes right back on itself, not quite making a figure of eight. About twenty feet higher than the approach. Beastie does well. Swings wide. Gets around the twist as easy as a Gay Gordon. Thinks he’s going to make it, then throws a wobbly. That other law takes hold. The one Newton told us about. Beastie is 3.8+ ton of stuff (plus us). He starts to bottle it. I have serious choices to make. Do I leave him to sort it? Do I slam my foot to the floor and threaten a stall. Or do I change down into 1st? Pick the third option. Go into Nike mode and ‘Just Do It’.
Unexpectedly, Beastie decides to perform his own version of a double de-clutch. Creates a complete moment of madness. Goes bonkers. Can’t he feel what sort of an incline we’re on? The transition from 2nd to 1st passes through neutral. For that split second there is no power being transmitted to the wheels. Our life lines severed. He comes to a halt. Not what we wanted. I ready myself to slam on the hand and foot brakes. The unfathomable property of Quantum Time rears its ugly head. For what seems like an eternity we simultaneously share visions of slipping back in time, literally, not virtually. Everything is out of our hands. The whole world around is still and quiet. We all hold our breath.
Just as suddenly, Beastie splutters. Like a resuscitated drowned person he coughs life back into his-self – and us. He counters the backwards pull. Tentatively at first. Then with more confidence. Drags us back from the brink. Carries us into the future . . .