This was a big treat for my mother, who had never visited Cornwall before. After a long hunt for a space, we parked our sports car in a side street, almost crushing my old red cycling helmet into the kerb in the process. (This didn’t really matter because I knew that there was a new one wrapped up for Christmas under our tree). We then pushed our bikes to the seafront.
From the promenade there were two options: (1) the high road or (2) the low road. TPR persuaded me to follow him up the steep steps up the high road. My mother and sister S took the alternative route.
I soon learnt that I had made a grave mistake. I had to push my bike most of the way uphill. Then, at the very top, where the track narrowed and it was impossible to turn back, I came face to face with the almost perpendicular shiny white-washed descent back to town. I would be trapped here clutching my handlebars forever, unable to go forward and – equally – unable to go back.
Dreamaticus 