As mentioned previously, there was a time, many years ago, when the climb of Dundonald Hill was an almost everyday occurrence. Seldom was the main focus the pleasure of riding a bicycle, although admittedly that was the somewhat masochistic by-product. Once I recall that Scott and I rode over from this side in the big ring, just to prove something or other to ourselves, each other, and no-one. This would have meant a lowest gear of 52-20, which seems inexplicably enormous as I spin away on a 34-18 today. By the time I reach the summit and enjoy the view across to Arran I’m not convinced that I’ve gone appreciably slower, either. I say as much to the cows grazing above me on the hillside but they are as interested an audience as you, so I clip back into my pedals and coast down to Loans, the ghosts of teenage memories following in my wake.