It is shrouded by thick greenery and mountain mists.
It is a place of group ride legend and discussion forum lore.
Its secrets are known to only the bravest, hardiest and strongest of thigh.
Where others climb to glory and the reward of a homeward descent, it pays out its thrills in advance then extracts payment in full before cups and chilled mugs can be raised in accomplishment.
Its rough surface and narrow passage affirm its Pyrenéean inclinations, modest though they may be when compared to the real deal, the Tourmalet, the Peyrésourde, the Galibier. To merely be uttered in the same paragraph is an homage; for some it will as close as they will ever get to such mythical ascents.
Its inclines humble calves, its cracks and potholes rattle molars, its trio of tight hairpins burn knuckles.
And when the day is done, the digital digits are overshadowed by the smiles of achievement.
Indian River Drive is a Col, in reverse.
Instead of climbing into the clouds, it first descends to the sea along speedy rollers and then a trio of steep, sharp switchbacks. And since it’s a dead end, those switchbacks become challenging, big ring busting ascents on the return trip. Some of the pitches court 24 per cent.