05 December, 2013

A man walks down the hill...

In the gutter. He has no shirt, only shorts and a pair of tattered trainers.

His skin is lined and battered, scorched by years under a relentless sun. He wears a vague, wistful look and his eyes focus just further than the middle distance.

His loping gait speaks volumes of the many miles he has trodden.

His arms are gaunt cables of muscle which have sagged and stretched. His cheeks are hollowed and sallow.

Across his back are tattooed the words: 'Stoke City F.C.'

Welcome to Tenerife!

Chez Wiggo: at the top of Teide, the plateau of which Neil Armstrong described as the place most similar to the moon landscape he had ever been.

It feels like both a lot and very little happened in Tenerife.

A lot of hours were done on the bike, and I say hours rather than kilometres because looking at average speeds the distance covered means nothing! What felt like copious amounts of time was spent washing kit in the sink, which is not easy. I imagine pre washing machine house-wives had forearms of steel!

Not a lot of time was spent choosing food: we went for the tuna/eggs with rice/pasta option day-in, day-out. I do admit to having several pizzas (just to liven things up a bit) as a pre-dinner snack though.

A lot of time on the bike was spent being either too hot (when climbing, sweating out my eyeballs) or too cold (when descending, clinging on for grim death on that never-ending hairpin bend). It keeps you on your toes that’s for sure!

Although seemingly every ride turned into an out-and-out epic, one day in particular will endure the longest in my memory. On the final Saturday, the day that Sam flew back, I decided to try and do a loop over to the North-West coast and then come back over El Teide. And… 

I’ll tell you about it next time!

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