Trundlegate, South Newbald, East Yorkshire, UK.
You can easily just cycle past the bottom of this challenging Yorkshire Wolds Hill as you ride out of the small village of South Newbald heading towards the main road back towards Hull.
The junction does not really excite any adventurous interest. A sidewards glance just reveals a short stubby section of road which splits in a 'V' but with its continuation in both directions being obscured by a curve of verge and hedgerow.
It may just be the promise of something special announced by the standard council signage that is the ultimate persuasive factor- Trundlegate.
To me its is an echo of a long distant age when Trundling was an everyday activity amongst the good, hard working folk of a hillside settlement. It has a sort of Viking twang to it. Trundle. The word even sounds like the noise of a hand drawn cart, a wooden wheeled wagon or every manner of mobile implement in play to till the soil, embed the crop seeds, tend to the young shoots and then ceremoniously and gratefully some months later gather in the harvest.
It could even evoke images of villagers, a bit too tipsy, making their way down the hill after a day out at the livestock market or labour fair in the largest nearby town of Beverley.
Today it is just what I call a bastard hill.
As some other cycling enthusiast of similar middle age and portly body shape was heard to say "if you want to lose weight as a chubby fifty something then just find a really steep hill and go up it regularly".
In these days of Global Positioning Systems (GPS) such as Strava it is considered to be an essential part of supposedly leisurely but actually very competitive riding to plot your own times for ascending and descending the main ups and downs in your home area and by doing so throw down a gauntlet to others of a like minded and similarly equipped outlook.
I of course do not participate in this form of one-up-manship and just go at my own cadence even if it means that I am passed by all manner of riders on all kinds of bikes.
I was drawn to the bastard hill or, as it is known locally, the Devils Chimney, today not out of any type of challenge but because it is a good short cut to get back home. There is always going to be some pain but if it saves about 5 miles from the trip then it is certainly worth it.
The lower part of Trundlegate is gentle and even after turning the left hand bend and getting the first clear view of the main slope there is no real cause for anxiety or panic.
There is just one house on the straight leg upwards and my eye is drawn to a piece of coloured enamel shoring up or patching the lower corner of an outhouse building. It is an old estate agents "for sale" board from a company that was trading in Hull when I first started work as a Surveyor in 1985. It was one of those fortunate businesses that fitted the profile to attract acquisition by a large insurance company or bank and the recognisable livery disappeared under a Corporate colour scheme but not before the proprietors were renumerated most handsomely, rumoured to have been in seven figures.
That blast from my past is a short term distraction and I momentarily forget that my knees and beginning to ache and my breathing deepens and quickens..
That first stretch of narrow single road can be plodded up quite readily even with the first tell tale symptons of a struggle between body mass and gravity.
My son with whom I am riding is already at the gradual right hander some 100 metres ahead but I can see that he is zig-zagging a bit from banked verge to banked verge fighting to keep his momentum going. He has just, no doubt seen the ramp in the gradient from 8% or about 1 in 12 in old money to 13% which is about 1 in 7. That is a serious incline.
We had been out and about for three hours by this time in the afternoon and for the first time enjoying a bit of a tail wind. That gusty breeze had been a constant drain on our energy levels for the previous thirty miles covered and only now were we aware that it was actually quite a nice, warm and sunny day.
I continued to just turn my pedals on the easiest gear of the middle ring. In other attempts on Trundlegate I had engaged the tiny, tiny ring and big, big cog just to keep moving. I took this to be a sign, perhaps of improving fitness. I have shed some weight in the last 10 months but every serious cyclist knows that this does not make a hill climb any easier but just that you can ride a bit faster and get the pain over a little quicker.
Surprisingly I am catching my son who must have a sensation of going backwards if he can hear me wheezing and puffing up to his back wheel.
We ride side by side now on the steepest part.
It feels heroic but if we had a speedometer it would likely show nothing more than walking pace.
A large group of cyclists appears over the blind summit and plummet past at what I would estimate to be ten times walking pace or more. They are all wearing matching jerseys but which I do not recognise. This could mean they are a visiting team who have heard about the infamous hill or a new intake at Hull University and their club.
My son is inspired by the rapidly descending riders and does one of his trademark kick downs on the pedals and is soon out of sight again and I carry on at my own pace and alone.
Trundlegate levels out now and a look over heaving shoulders gives a panoramic view over the Vale of York.
If my eyes were not stinging with sweat then I might have been able to point out the distinctive shape of the regional landmark of York Minster some 25 miles to the north west.
Frankly, I could not be bothered even though the distance seen is well worth stopping to witness.
A chance to catch my breath and take a welcome swig of plastic tasting water from my plastic bottle summons the end of the hill. The bastard has been conquered again. Maximum points for that but as they say "nil points" for style and overall performance.
Never mind, I say, there is always another day.
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