It’s hill climb season. I’m currently writing a book about someone who hated hill climbs. This means I’m quite a long way removed from the hills this year.
This article appeared online this week:
I don’t especially remember writing it. I remember writing something for the Doppio back along. I think it must be that. It’s the pattern of words. I was in the thick of doing other stuff, work and so on, the usual blitzkreig of unrelated stressful shit that gets in the way of actually living, and must have written it then. It looks and sounds like my writing.
“If you’ve never done a UK hill climb, felt that horrid feeling of callow legs convulsing in paroxysms of lactic acid, seen – or failed to see – a crowd baying at the side of the road, sensed the world around you shrink away to nothingness as your peripheral vision slides away in a red wave of oxygen debt, been helped, catatonic, from your bike in as close an approximation as you can get to death without actually dying, then you haven’t lived.”
I quite like it. I like the opposites – seeing and not seeing, living and dying – the contradictions. It works well.
I also stumbled across a link somewhere else, with someone describing ACE as ‘a touchstone’, which is very nice.