Some strain, now. Some real pull. I go past a bit, then he catches up, passes. I can barely turn the cranks.
And we have not yet arrived at Alba Road.
It's no good. The approach was never like this. The earth has stood up. I stop. I signal, and my companion returns the gesture. We are leaving off.
The dejected fate and forlorn expression of the defeated. There's nothing for it but to turn back, approach some more pleasant enterprise. We'll do our next projects separately, however. He was my Alba Road partner, but it was a failed partnership.
A subduction layer which heaved subterranean waves of mountain in my face to render me feeble and ancient.