We sweat and pant towards the summit under the gaze of a few lackadaisical sheep, who chew the grass on the roadside, unperturbed by our presence.

I’m last on the course. The sweeper’s motorbike is right behind me. His job: Close the race. Protect trailing riders from dangerous predators.

The gorge walls closed in as we climbed higher. The bird song and heat grew louder. We had already stepped through the portal.