First Impressions

At the end of my first day of skiing, I wanted nothing more than to soak my cold, wet, tired, bruised, sore, unathletic, out-of-shape body in a hot tub for the next day ... or two. Reasoning that skiing was popular, I knew there must be something I was missing. I gave the sport a second chance, and learned how much fun it can be.

The first time I tried a Low-Key Hillclimb, I was concerned that the racing types would look at me with a mixture of disdain and pity. Nothing could be further from reality. All cyclists truly are welcome, supported with shouts of encouragement along the way and cheers at the finish.

In 2007, I rode six of the nine climbs and learned what it was like to push myself to the limit. Last year, I approached each climb with a mixture of excitement and dread. I wanted to ride, but now I fully understood what it felt like to perform at the edge. Each Saturday morning was a struggle . . . why subject myself to an hour or more of lung-searing, leg-burning agony? Each week I won [or lost, depending on one's perspective] that battle; I rode five of the eight climbs.

The gracious folks at Potrero Nuevo Farm welcomed us to assemble at the Bike Hut this morning. The Bike Hut is a local treasure that Bay Area cyclists hope to enjoy for many rides to come. Hospitality, with a sense of humor.

I was not sure how long it would take me to reach the top this morning, but I figured it would be well over an hour. Today presented the longest climb of the series so far (7.6 miles), and I doubted that I could average any speed close to 7.6 mph going uphill.

Once the back of the pack sorted itself out, I found myself in an uncommon position: bracketed by two other riders. The distance between us was somewhat elastic, but our pace was pretty constant. Until, as in the immortal words of the legendary Phil Liggett, the elastic snapped. The guy ahead of me ran out of steam. It was one of those rare moments for me, as I passed him, to experience the sensation of being in a race (as opposed to a solo time trial). The guy behind would sometimes draw near, but I held him off. The only cyclists who passed me then were the mighty specimens with chiseled calves, including one guy on a shiny Cervélo who admired my Death Ride jersey.

From Tunitas Creek, we turned onto Star Hill to head for the rudest part of the climb, the aptly named Swett. I carried what speed I could into the turn and gave it my all. (I highly recommend this approach to avoid stalling out and toppling over.) Some say that the gradient is 19%. You can see the top of this segment from the bottom without having to tilt your head back too far, but with all the debris from last week's storm you had little choice other than to follow one of the two car tire tracks straight up.

If you had suggested that I would reach a top speed of 22.1 mph from a standing start, while heading up Tunitas Creek Road, I would have called you crazy. If you had suggested that I would find a place to shift into my largest gear while climbing Tunitas Creek Road, I would have given you a hearty laugh. Yet, today I did both of those things, averaging almost 7.5 mph to arrive at Skyline in 61:04.

This year, excitement has vanquished the dread. Each Saturday morning, I am eager for the challenge. I will never be fast, but I am having a blast.