Of Mind and magic

As a teenager, I once saw a black and white photograph of a magnificent  landscape in a friend’s father’s study. I didn’t know quite what I was  looking at. But, transfixed by the silvery squiggles strewn over the  jagged mountain, I knew that it was stunning.
 

“The Stelvio Pass,” said my friend’s father. And I nodded, the exotic image forever fixed in my mind's eye.

It was not until I was a cyclist, nearly two decades later, that I  understood what a mountain pass actually was. A route over a mountain  range, it aims to facilitate crossing by snaking through a gap between  two peaks. It would be a mistake, however, to infer that a route of this  sort is flat, or easy. No matter how you spin it, you are still  crossing a mountain range after all. And so I soon learned to expect  climbing when anything with the words Pass or Gap in the name was  involved.
 

Still, in those parts of the world where I've lived, the passes and gaps  have tended to be rather tame, straightforward affairs: some miles up,  then down, with a few sweeping bends. That iconic image of dense bundles  of switchbacks was something I'd only seen in photos.
 

I should have known that this was about to change, when I told a friend  about our upcoming trip to Kerry. When I mentioned our plans to cycle  over the Connor Pass and asked whether he'd done it himself, he  responded with: "Ah yes, the Connor Pass is a must! It's a very ...European climb."
 

I did not know what he meant by that at the time, imagining vaguely a mountainside strewn with outdoor cafes and art galleries. But apparently, "European climb" means hairpins. Plenty of switchbacks and hairpins! But I'll get to that later.

Located in one of the most scenic regions  of Ireland, the Connor Pass slices lengthwise through the Dingle  Peninsula at the south-western tip of the country, offering sweeping  views of surrounding valleys and waterways. It is known as one of the  highest paved mountain passes in Ireland and is a Category 2 climb. That  said, it does not actually look too bad on paper: a not-quite-4 mile  ascent, at 7-7.5% grade average. We headed toward it on the first day of  our cycling tour, fresh and innocent. And as we pedaled into a moderate  headwind from our starting point near Tralee, it almost felt like we needed the climb to burn off our excess of nervous energy. Had we packed enough things? Had we packed the right things? Would we find places to stay every night? Would it rain on us the whole time? Our minds needed to be quieted.
 

The usual route toward the Connor Pass is along a fairly flat coastal  road that stretches for about 20 miles from Tralee through countryside  that is attractive, but not overly dramatic - not counting the distant  view of a mountain range that resembles a jagged knife's edge. The road  starts out wide and fairly heavy with traffic. But at some point there  is a fork, and a sign diverting  lorries, buses, and other large vehicles onto a different road  (thankfully, they are not allowed on the pass). The road toward the Pass  itself grows narrower and quieter then, attaining a slight gradient.  Then, after a sweeping bend, the view of the Connor Pass opens up.
 

I did not notice it at first. That is, I saw the steep face of the  mountain when we rounded the bend, but did not see any road going up it.  Then my husband shouted excitedly: "Look! There it is right there, you  can see the road!"
 

"What! Where?"