Of Mind and Gap

The mountainside was crumply gray rock. My long distance vision is not  great, and the hazy light was not helping. But finally I saw it: A  narrow, almost path-like road appeared to zigzag straight up the steep  face of the mountain. Gray on gray, it lay camouflaged  amidst the stone, like some giant malicious snake. I could just make  out the tiny specs of several cars slowly rounding one of the hairpin  bends, at a seemingly impossible height.
 

Next thing I knew, a pool of black began to spread over my field of vision  - in that slow-motion way that happens just before you faint. I had the  good sense to jump off my bike just then. And soon I was sitting at the  side of the road, head below knees, my heart pounding, sweat pouring  down my face. It took me a moment to gain my composure and understand  what was happening. Was I having a heart attack? No, a panic attack. A  panic attack at the sight of that road full of switchbacks!
 

Well, this was an interesting predicament. My mind began to race  with solutions that would not ruin our trip, but really there weren't  any other than my proceeding with the climb. I had wanted to do  it. I had looked forward to it. But now every time I as much as glanced  up the road, tears projectile-sprayed from my eyes and my legs trembled.  At the same time, I was somehow managing to laugh at myself  hysterically. "This is ridiculous! I don't know why I'm acting like  this, I'm so sorry!"
"You need blinkers, like for a nervous horse," suggested my husband pragmatically.
 

We toyed with the idea of tucking leaves into the sides of my cycling  cap. But at length, we decided instead that I would simply try and keep  my gaze down on the road and take it one bend at a time, without looking  up at the landscape that spread out in front of me. And with this plan,  and my legs still atremble, we set off to do the climb.
I don't want to play down the physicality of a Category 2 climb. But if  you are bicycle-fit, not in a hurry, and have reasonable gearing, the  Connor Pass is not a difficult ascent. Climbing it from the so-called  "steep side" as we did, the gradient was nearly always a very steady  7.5% - dipping occasionally to below 4% and spiking up to 11% a couple  of times. Never anything worse than that. Now, the road is narrow, and  there were occasional cars that required some steady nerves to steer  around, especially if you happen to overlap at a bend. But if you can  handle that, and can sustain the described gradient over <4 miles,  you should have no problems with the physical part of this climb. With  my gearing of 50/34t front and 11-29t rear, I flicked back and forth  between cogs, just to vary the  pace, and felt pretty good ...just as long as I kept my eyes on the road  directly in front of me and did not attempt to look around. Because no  sooner would I look at the many switchbacks ahead, then my heart would  start to pound again, my breathing to get out of control, my hands and  knees to shake. "Don't look; take it one bend at a time," became my  little chant.
 

For the final few bends of the climb, the road tightened and competing  with cars became quite precarious. Not wanting to hang about in this  section too long, I switched into "let's get this over with" mode,  quickened my pace and was at the top before I knew it. Well, that wasn't  too bad after all! The first thing I did of course, was get out my  camera and photograph the husband climbing the final stretch.

Dismounting his bike with a tired smile, he complimented my climbing  skillz, then put his arm around me and gestured toward the Romantic View  of the climb we'd just conquered.
 

"Look!"
 

My knees gave out straight away.
 

"Oh jayzus. Okay, don't look. Don't look!"

Normally cyclists celebrate at  the top of a mountain pass. Me, I had to be propped up, dragged to the  nearest secluded patch of grass, smacked and pinched till the blood  returned to my face. An elderly couple stared and whispered suspiciously. A crow began to circle me eagerly. It was out of hand.
 

I was trying to understand what exactly was daunting me. Clearly it wasn't fear of doing the  climb that was causing the panic, since the climb was now done and  dusted. It was the sheer appearance of the hairpins that was having this  effect on me. The view was't so much scary, as overwhelming; there was a  "too muchness" about it. The reaction was not unlike a form of  agoraphobia.

Seeing as I did have to descend the mountain eventually, I decided to try some  DIY exposure therapy. I would look at the view of the hairpin road a  little bit at a time. I tried to see it abstractly - to enjoy it as a  work of art, as I did all those years ago with the photo of Stelvio.  After a while (quite a while!) it seemed to work. Or at least I was calm  enough to get back on my bike.
 

Thankfully, the other side of the Connor Pass was not nearly as twisty.  The fairly easy descent did little to tax my handling skills and  actually relaxed me. As we floated down to Dingle Town all seemed funny  again.
 

"What is wrong with me?!"
Two days later, we cycled over the Gap of Dunloe and Moll's Gap. Each of  these magnificent gaps was a bundle of hairpins so tight, so steep, so  narrow, so overall "European" - that the Connor Pass, in retrospect,  began to seem like mere practice for the real deal! And somehow in the  two days that had passed, I had come to terms with the landscape and no  longer had the same reaction to seeing the hairpin roads spread out  ahead of me.
 

The Stelvio Pass? Perhaps not just yet. But my mind is learning to step aside and let the body do its magic.