Popping the cherry

There's a hill near me known in cycling circles as The Tumble, and to everyone else as the Blorenge. It's not a massive hill but its no slouch either.
I've been putting off climbing it for a while, too long really. It had been on the back of my mind since Thom over at Mamnick lay down the Mamnick Challenge. What with work, 'cross training and cross races coming through it just didn't look like I'd have the time to get my challenge ride in.
But then serendipity came smiling and with a low turnout on the Sunday club the opportunity presented itself. To deal with the Blorenge first though is to not tell the full story.
The route had been penned mentally for a while as said and with the forecast turning out favourable today was the day. First on the list was out to Crickhowell and then hang a left up to Mynydd Llangattwg. This would be my third time up there and as a climb it's good. Right up until the last kick to the junction. I had company in Paul and Adrian from the club and we celebrated with Jelly Babies (are you listening Mr Brailsford?) at the summit. After soaking up the fantastic scenery it was time to move on. Hanging a right there we cruised back down to Llangynidr, over the beautiful old bridge then on the nose pelt down to Crickhowell and some hearty brownie and coffee in the Number 18 café there.
Onward again with sustenance in our bellies and as we came back through the lanes we had managed to dodge the promised showers.
There was that tingle then of possibility.
'Fancy a run up there, then?' Paul said.
We had come into view of the Blorenge and I laughed in response.
Then,
'Yeah fuck it why not'.
As the junction approached I bade my club companions farewell and turning right began to go up The Tumble.
There's a cheeky humpback bridge over the canal, then onwards still further and as a 3 series comes tearing past ready to steam up the hill, the hairpin presents itself.
The 3 series brakes hard with downshifts barking as it swings hard right and with a short squeal of complaint from the tyres it tucks in and hurtles upwards.
Meanwhile I carry on spinning and plodding. Glasses tucked on my cap covered head, bill still positively flipped up and jersey only a smidge open.
Some climbs show themselves from the off, some hide little surprises, others like this one show you sections at a time. Mentally broken down to start-finishes.
Spin spin spin.
Other riders notes and recollections come to mind; Adrian's tactic of dismounting at the cattle grid in the damp, Paul's hatred of false flats. Pete's general dislike of the place in general. Which is surprising seeing as he's actually a reasonable climber.
Up and up we go.
The crags to the left pass and the view to the right grows.
I find the climb in three stages, and with markers on the road ticking off I'm well into the third and final one. In what seems like no time Keepers Pond is passing by on my left and I can see the Lamb and Flag pub over on the tip to the right.
There we are then, at the summit. No bloody ice cream van today though which is a shame.
I tuck into my last 4 jelly babies and snap a few photos.
The old trusty steed;

Sugarloaf and Abergavenny in the distance with the rain cloud we dodged;

and over to Bristol and England;

With the wind beginning to whistle and my tummy starting to grumble it's time to tuck in and whisk downhill back home.
Stats then; 50 miles, a smidge over 4,500ft climbing. 2 decent hills and a personal challenge ticked off.

On top of the world

A good pedal this morning. Opting to turn left instead of right at Crickhowell I tackled Mynydd Llangattwg.

It's always a little daunting when you can see that where you want to be is considerably higher than where you are. Just sit and pedal, I kept telling myself.
After what seemed like an age, and after passing a shooting party I rounded the corner of the junction with very little air left in my lungs. A sheep regarded me for the fool I am.

Still more climbing to go.
After rounding a corner I could see there was no more hill to climb and shortly found myself at the summit. Where actually the views weren't that great.

I gobbled a banana down and pressed on, not entirely sure where I was going to come out.
The town before me wasn't the one I had expected to see, and was Brynmawr.

Still, I knew the way from Brynmawr back home and most of it was downhill. I checked with another cyclist, a guy riding a single speed road bike with thighs each twice the size of my own, and he confirmed the turning I should take. Some bugger was cooking bacon as I passed through Brynmawr with my stomach beginning to rumble, but I would be damned if I could find the source of the lovely aroma.
From then on it was a pretty easy run to Blaenavon and home. I did contemplate stopping for some cake and a brew in Blaenavon but decided with only 8 miles to home I might as well keep going. I was slowly building my lunch menu in my head as I pressed on.
So, to the victor go the spoils, or something similarly tenuous.
Venison, bacon and cheese burger in fried slices, with carbonara on the side, and a bit of extra bacon.

Keep fit, it's brilliant.