They wave, we wave. Not a mad driver or nasty dog in sight. The sidewalks disappear, the houses are separated by woods, and the road seems to shoot up into the sky. We shift down through the gears, trying to keep the pedals turning at a constant rate. In the lowest gear, with the summit a distant mirage, we have to stand up.
Sweat drops onto the spinning front tire.
The pavement rushes beneath. The bottle of tea has a cool bead of condensation around its lid. And then the pedals go light underfoot, and we stroke gently over the top of the pass, looking up from the handlebars in time to see the road drop over the crest into a panorama of fields and distant mountains. We hit the first shift perfectly on the way down the other side, then jump three gears at a time, trying to keep up with gravity. But we're already going too fast to worry about pedaling.