I’m sitting on a rough ledge, dusted white and overlooking a sheer drop. The sun is warm against my back, which is a truly unexpected kind of hug, especially here in the U.K. Wind roars past in frantic gusts, drowning out the periodic buzz of the crickets. When I catch the sound, like the spokes of a bicycle spinning as they catapult someone across the world, I think about the twisting roads that snake around these endless, sloping mountains, and how perfectly terrifying they would be to race along.