Col de L’Egaré

Basque Pyrenees - February 2016

Egaré means lost, astray, wandering,
Far from home,
Out of the pack,
Alone.

No one comes up this road.
One of my colleagues once told me he couldn’t drive his car up it:
Too steep,
And it doesn’t go anywhere 
That the winding valley road can’t take you, anyway.

He was half right,
I suppose. 

Col de L’Egaré
It’s a right-hand turn
Past the white Basque farmhouse
With its pretty red beams and sills

It bucks at the start
But I know I can delay it.
If I cut wide around the apex of the first corner
I’ll save my strength
For the bit the car can’t handle,
The real kick.

This climb…
Every pedal stroke
Is the drawing back of a bowstring
Where the arrow is pointed at you.
Turning pedals here
Is cranking a thousand pounds of tension
Into a bow that bends to breaking point

And only when the cracks have come
And the bow is shaking
Quivering to hold
The sharp tip of the arrow is loosed
To find its mark in failing spirits,
Glazed eyes,
Heaving lungs,
Lungs that can’t.

They can’t. 

I ask again. 
I insist.
They can’t. 

The arrow finds its mark.  

I can’t.  

I can’t.  

The summit is receding.
The asphalt will engulf me.

There’s nothing in my legs,
And something I’ve not seen before
Is coming out of my nose.

My left foot betrays me. 

Click 

I have one foot on the ground. 

Basque Pyrenees - June 2017

Egaré means lost, astray, wandering
But I know exactly where I am going.

Past the white Basque farmhouse
With its pretty red beams and sills

I take that apex in two strokes
And I’m away
Back in the saddle
In the turning of the pedals
The rolling of the wheels
Back in my body
In my breath 
Inhaling the summit
Exhaling the metres behind me

I’m drawing back the bowstring
Relishing the tension
Eager for the bow to crack
Daring the arrow to fly loose
And seek its mark in hardened spirits
And tempered limbs, 
Knowing that, 
if it meets,
Then I am lost
Col de L’Egaré.

And so, I rise to meet the road
And defy the arrow to test me 
My legs and lungs ten thousand miles stronger
Yet suffering
Burning
Begging to put just
One foot on the ground
Before the arrow finds its mark again. 

I’m out of my saddle
Out of my body 
Out of my mind

Out of my doubt 

And over the summit. 

No one saw me slump
And start to roll down the other side
Of this road that no one comes up.

No one.
Except, perhaps, 
a crow in the trees that line the road.
And if he was watching
He would probably wonder
About the hint of smug glory in the smile 
Of this strange man slumped over his machine.

He wasn’t there the first time. 
He didn’t see me put my foot on the ground.
And even in the silence of this lost battleground
he didn’t hear me think
“I can’t.”
“I can’t.”

So what could he know
About arrowtips,
And out-of-reach summits,
About bows
And heaving lungs,
About the arrow and the mark it seeks,
And growing stronger after those two meet? 

And slumping.
What could he know about slumping,
With a hint of smug glory 
in my smile?