So, taking advantage of the trail that left from the hotel, I headed up into the ancient hills above the hotel. Granite outcrops poked out from the land and pushed the sky up, and the ground raised dust in little puffs. The temperature was well into the 30's which forced most birds into shelter; their role in noise-making being replaced by crickets churring and buzzing like muted electric buzzers. The land was locked into stillnes and even the wind seemed reluctant to upset the supremacy of the sun.
I pumped up the first climb, pleased to be out and using my legs, and my knee felt pretty good. I have been cycling for longer than I have been running, and raced for long enough to feel immediately at home on any bike I sit on. When running I find myself considering the natural urges to run and cling on to the nativist argument that we evolved to run, but this just can't apply to cycling. There is something so deeply satisfying about pushing on the pedals with a resulting accelaration that far outstrips running, but it does depend on technology.
I took full advantage of this feeling by cruising and bouncing down the track at a speed slightly higher than my confort zone - I really am a rubbish mountain biker (although in my defence it was an unknown bike and I haven't ridden off-road for ages). Wind streamed into my face and the front wheel bumped and jarred over rocks and dust with the odd random piece of tarmac thrown in to provide variety.
A quick stop to look at a cave that was home to people 5,000 years ago. I left my bike on the track and crawled in to see if I could feel some buzz of historical connection. The cave was pretty untouched despite having been excavated in the 1970's and fine green moss contrasted with the cool dust on the ground lending the space a cool calm. I squatted there with the outside noises seemingly more distant than they really were - no spark or ghostly presence sadly, but a comforting space nonetheless.
Back on the bike and starting to build to a sweat now, the legs recognising deep action-memories. I stomped harder and thundered through the heat; mountains rearing up on either side as I passed into the 'paleozoic valley of Lanaittu'. Bare rocks offered no leafy coolness, and even the trees seemed too miserly to spread their branches. Donkeys stood squashed into shady patches and gazed at me with their liquid eyes and the occasional lizard flicked across the track. Dust was settling on my sweat and when I licked my lips there was a salty graininess that mirrored the rocks. A quick in-flight swig from the bottle and I pounded on to the Nuraghe village at the head of the valley - remnants of an ancient civilisation nestled in a cave.
I didn't go in - no money for the entry fee and actually no desire to do so when there are tracks to be thumped along. Ignoring the pathetic map I was using I just rode along a track until by great good luck I looped back and hit the trail to return to the hotel. Returning raises the spirit, and linked with my increasing confidence on the 29er, I really started to pile on the speed. The air was thick with dust and the hills seemed steeper than the outward journey.
A quick shimmy past the car park and up the vertiginous cobbles that led to the hotel entrance. I parked the bike on the terrace by the bar and walked past the guests reclining in all their clean poshness with a gait that in my mind suggested a saddle-weary cowboy but in reality resembled a rather dirty dork struggling to stand upright.
Cycling - oh yes! Who cares if the weather is so hot that all sensible people are in the bar or swimming pool? Who cares if the combination of BaD Tri top and tatty barefoot shoes breaks sporty cultural codes? Not me - the legs got to work, and the swimming pool afterwards was like diving into refrigerated liquid silver.
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