The B’s Beat the A’s

Well, not in the realm of speed. But the Sunday morning club ride turned out to be a real morale booster for at least two of us B riders.

We were going to head out on a route I’d been wanting to do for some time, but for some reason never got around to it. I had ridden it last about three years ago, and recalled that it approached 50 miles. It also features a few hills.

Twenty-four riders set off at 8:15 on an overcast day, with temperatures hovering in the low to mid 60s (18C). As usual, we quickly separated into a fast group, a less fast group, and the B riders. Four of us made up the B contingent today: me and Maggie, who has been riding with the club for a couple of months, and two newcomers, Mark and Victoria. Actually, Mark qualified as an A rider, but he was content to stay back with Victoria.

By the time we reached the rural part of the route, we couldn’t even see any riders ahead of us anymore. I directed Mark to turn right onto a road that leads around the back side of a country club, hoping that was the way the A’s went — not that I thought we’d ever see them again.

But in a few minutes, we came upon several riders alongside the road. Janice, who is usually near the front of the pack, had hit what she called a “crevasse” in the asphalt — a big crack that swallowed her rear wheel. The tire was badly damaged, and she was lo0king for someone with a boot. I carry a piece of a ride number to serve that purpose. It’s made of a Tyvek-like material, and it’s no problem to cut a ride number in thirds, and stuff them into the seat bag.

Too bad I hadn’t done that recently. I came up empty. Jerry (not the same Jerry who broke his leg in a fall a couple of weeks ago) did have one — a nifty little unit the size of a credit card he bought from Park Tool. Janice made do with it — “I really needed several today,” she said — and abandoned the ride to head home.

A mile or so up ahead, the A’s had all gathered to wait for Janice to catch up. When I told our ride leader that she would be turning around, we all headed out in a big group again. Then the fun really began.

Satterwhite Road is a rural road in Hays County that gets a lot of bike traffic on Sundays. It’s fun, because of its rolling hills. I was following Maggie at speed down one of the hills, when the road surface at the bottom just didn’t look right. It changed in an instant from semi-smooth old asphalt to torn up. It looked as though a giant scraper had been over it, ripping up the old asphalt and leaving only what was underneath — hard-packed dirt, gravel, and stones.

We all hit the brakes and rode gingerly through the mess. Two riders flatted along here. Whenever we hit a stretch of asphalt that hadn’t been torn up, we rejoiced — only to round a bend and get hit with another bad road surface. This lasted for several miles, when finally we could turn onto a new road.

I saw the A’s up ahead, waiting at an intersection. It looked like they were going to take a shortcut back home. But Maggie and I had discussed our ride options, and she wanted to go a little longer. We shot past the startled A’s and kept going. Our route added probably six miles to the one they chose.

After a rest stop at the convenience store in Creedmoor, we set out for home. Maggie had to pick up her son from a sleepover at noon, and we would be hard-pressed to get back by then. We both pushed it harder than usual, taking turns at the lead.

Our route passed the exotic game ranch behind the big landfill, and the animals were out in larger numbers than I had seen before. Lots of small deer and antelopes, but also ostriches and emus, a zebra, and a number of scimitar oryx — African antelope with long, curving horns. Magnificent!

Just before reaching the Starbucks where our ride began, Maggie and I peeled off in different directions, she to get her car and me to head the last mile home. This afternoon, the club president posted his summary of the ride. The A’s did 41 miles. The B’s — Maggie and yours truly — did 48! I believe this is a first. The B’s have never ridden farther on a club ride than the A’s. In the overall scheme of things, not much perhaps. But it was a little feather in the cap for Maggie and me.

Stoplights — Bike Ride Spoilers

The main club ride today was scheduled to make a run into the city. It would skirt downtown and go north on some well-traveled bike routes.

I’ve done most of this route in the past, but it’s not one of my favorites. The turnaround point is about 25 miles out, and it’s all urban and suburban riding — nothing in the country. I had suggested a country ride to Creedmoor, but at the Starbucks gathering point, some of the other Bs thought tagging along with the A ride would be fun. So we set off in an impressive looking group of 28 riders.

That group strung out and some of us were losing contact with the front pack by about nine miles into the ride. We had had some online discussion about one of the streets, which has been closed on and off over the last few weeks. Some said we needed an alternate route to get around the construction. The club president said he drove that street the afternoon before, and it was open. Unfortunately, he posted that info at 7:15 in the morning, and I didn’t see it.

We got to an intersection with Lamar Blvd., a major north-south artery in town, and watched with downcast faces as the peloton shot across. The red light held up about six of us. It turned out to be a long light. By the time we got rolling again, any trace of the main group was long gone. We found our way up to Barton Springs Blvd., which would take us to the pedestrian bridge over the Colorado River.

At Barton Springs, another red light. Two of us got across the street before the light turned red, but the others got stuck at the intersection. We waited. Then, another red light on our street separated us again. The three of us in front waited. Finally, we got up to the pedestrian bridge. It’s a lower level of the freeway bridge that crosses the river, and is used by both pedestrians and cyclists. On this gorgeous Sunday morning, it was packed. I unclipped from my right pedal so I could put my foot down in an instant if needed, and pushed on only my left pedal to weave through the crowd.

Cross the bridge. Turn left, power up a hill past an uninterrupted row of cars, many of which could block us with opening doors. We kept a careful lookout, but got to the next light with no trouble. Another long stoplight, then we could turn onto a road with a decent shoulder and make some time. Any hope of catching the main group had long since disappeared, and we continued on as a fractured group of six.

But at another turn onto Shoal Creek Blvd., who should we see but New York John. He was waiting for us, because his son-in-law was one of our group.

“What the f***!” he yelled. “I’m waitin’ for my son-in-law, and the whole f****n’ B ride shows up! I t’ought youse was goin’ to Creedmoor! Ten f****n’ minutes I’m waitin’ here! Why the f*** are youse guys so f****n’ slow? Aaagh, now I been dropped! Let’s get f****n’ movin’!”

I love New York John.

He set a quick pace up Shoal Creek, even though there was no way we would catch the As. He might be 65, but he’s slightly built, and rolls his carbon fiber Specialized Roubaix with the best of them. Shoal Creek is a road through residential neighborhoods, and sure enough, stoplights pepper the route. Sure enough, some of us got caught at them.

Stoplights can be your friend. John and the others were stuck at one at Anderson Lane, and we three laggards caught up. About a mile later, we saw a peloton heading toward us. It was the A group.

We did a U-turn, heedless of traffic in the area, and latched onto them. Luckily, they pulled into a convenience store a minute later, and we got to take a much-needed rest.

It was nice to feel the pull of the peloton on the way out. I was in the middle of the pack, chatting with a couple of A riders and our club president. But we had some guests with us today, and they picked up the pace. The group fractured again. This time, the club president stayed back with us. He got caught by another stoplight, too.

By the time we reached Mount Bonnell, it was just Buddy, Jan and me. “We don’t have to climb Bonnell,” I said. “We can stay on this street, which is plenty hilly, and meet them a little ways on.”

The club president caught us a mile down the road. “We waited for you at the top,” he said. “It was literally only 50 yards to the top — you could have come with us and bombed down the nice downhill.” We turned into a gas station for a quick break — and the rest of the ride flew by us.

After crossing the pedestrian bridge over the river again, we got onto the frontage road of the Mopac Expressway. Buddy was starting to slow, bothered by cramps in his quads. I stayed back with him, but that noble gesture was driven by self-interest. By now, I was tired, too.

One last stoplight on Escarpment Blvd. I made it through — Buddy didn’t. He pulled into Starbucks a few minutes after I did. We agreed that we’d done well this day — 3500 feet of climbing over about 50 miles. Both of us were pleased with the results, but we agreed that without those pesky stoplights, we would have done a lot better.

Conquering That Hill

I was planning to do a 50-mile or so flat ride southeast of town today, but some of my fellow club members did that ride Saturday, and they were headed for the hills today. That’s okay, because the route allows a convenient turnaround for me and other B riders at about the 17-mile mark. I figured 34-35 miles of hills would equate to 50 miles in the flats, so I showed up.

It was a morning for riding we haven’t seen around here in a long time. Rain came through last night, and the sky was heavily overcast, with temperatures in the low 70s (22C). No wind. Conditions were perfect for a fast ride, and the peloton took off like a pack of scalded dogs. I knew they’d be held up by stoplights along the way, and while I pedaled briskly, I didn’t push myself. I was the only B rider to show up this morning (apparently, the cloudy skies had enough promise of rain that they scared some riders off).

One of the really fast guys flatted about two miles into the ride. A few of us kept going, while the bulk of the group stood around while he changed his tube. We figured they’d catch us sooner rather than later. I had company in the form of Steve J., the state time trial champion of Texas in the 65-69 year old age group. He rode fast the day before, and was looking for an easy ride, so he was fine with loping along with me, chatting about a myriad of different topics.

We turned onto Barton Creek Blvd., which is a smooth, wide road through a (very) wealthy neighborhood. Here’s where the hills began in earnest, with a series of rollers that get higher as you go north. Sure enough, I was passed by the guy who had had the flat, then a couple more, and several more. We reached “Hail Mary Hill” at the end of the road in a group. This steep hill has caused me problems in the past, although I was able to climb it the last time I came through here, about a month ago.

Today, I hit the initial uptick for the hill with a surge of energy. Unlike past efforts, where I was loaded with doubts at the base of the hill, I knew today that I would climb it — and with no trouble. I shifted down, put more power to the pedals, and felt the bike surge forward — a bit. I wasn’t going to pass anyone today, since I carry a substantial weight disadvantage over most of these folks.

When I pulled into the church parking lot at the top of the hill, a couple of riders made remarks like, “You were climbing well today,” and “You had an easy time of it.” Hail Mary Hill is never easy, but I had an “easier” time of it than I ever have in the past.

I rode much of the rest of the ride with a 20-something cyclist who has had his cycling interrupted by work and school, and was happy not to race with the large group. The rollers went by with less effort than they have in the past. I didn’t have that fatigued feeling I often get on this route.

So why the big improvement? I include a decent, but not too tough, hill on some of my weekly rides. It’s got three or four short, steep segments and a long steady climb. I use a stopwatch on that long climb, and I’ve dropped my time by six seconds over the last two weeks — although I was eight seconds slower when I did it Saturday. Ever notice how a mediocre performance can presage a good performance in the next day or two?

Other than that, I haven’t done anything different. But I can feel that my legs are putting out more power. I’m sure the cooler weather today had something to do with it. Doesn’t matter. I’m just happy it’s happening — just in time for the Hotter ‘n Hell Hundred this coming weekend.

Can’t Outguess Mother Nature

We’d been expecting all week that Sunday’s club ride would be affected by rain. We were on the tail end of the big weathermaker that brought killer tornadoes to Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska and Iowa Saturday. While we weren’t going to get anything that severe, the forecast called for a good chance of strong storms at about the time we’d be in the middle of our ride.

So we gathered under a sky dark with low clouds, high winds, and the threat of a line of storms off to our northwest. Consensus was that we would head northwest, but double back to avoid the worst of the rain and have maybe a shorter than usual ride.

A good turnout of 17 showed that not everyone was scared off by the threat of rain. There were even some new people in the mix. Our ride to the turnaround was uneventful, and the clouds actually started to break up. We regrouped and headed toward the west again, this time on a different road. But when the ride leader wanted to head north on Barton Creek Blvd. (the road that would take us to the infamous “Hail Mary Hill”) a few of us rebelled. Both John and Kenny had ridden long and hard on Saturday, and weren’t up for killer hills. The three of us decided to head east and work our way back to the starting point.

We battled the still-strong crosswinds on the way, but had a nice three-person paceline along Southwest Parkway. I suggested we go over to Convict Hill, where I would show them my usual Saturday morning hill workout. For Kenny, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge, but it would give him something new to look at.

Kenny is a strong rider — the kind of guy who does a 100-mile ride in a little over four hours on a Saturday, then comes back for a 45-mile club ride the next day as a “recovery ride.” When he saw Convict Hill, he extolled its advantages as an excellent venue for hill training. His idea of hill training is 30-second repeats, going all out, then standing and pushing hard on the steeper section of the hill. We got to the top, looped around for some other, less difficult hills, and roared down the smooth asphalt to head back to Starbucks.

The sky, which had lightened but was still overcast, was now darkening again. The wind was as strong as ever.  We chatted at Starbucks for a good half hour before the rest of the crew started to trickle in. It seems they had broken up on the ride over the desire of some to go farther, and others to head back. Around 11 a.m. I pulled the plug and said my goodbyes.

At home, I ran into my wife who was still in her biking clothes after doing some Veloway laps. We showered and grabbed a light lunch and were starting our house cleaning chores when the pitter-patter of raindrops sounded on the back patio. The rain came in two waves, first light, then heavier, but when it was all over we didn’t get much more than a couple of tenths of an inch. It was good for my scraggly lawn, but not the kind of soaker we really need around here.

So it turned out to be a good ride, but at 25 miles, a lot shorter than I expect to do on a Sunday outing with the club. Coupled with a ride of only 19 miles the day before, and I appear to have some ground to make up this month. But that’s okay. If Mother Nature cooperates the way she did today,  I should have my share of good weather weekends for riding.

By the way, that 19 miles on Saturday was the result of one of those flukes of biking: A bee flew into my big helmet vent, got stuck inside, panicked, and stung me. Since I tend to blow up like a balloon when stung by bees, I rushed home to attend to the problem, but since it stung me in the forehead and got only skin and bone, there wasn’t a lot to swell. Tylenol is great. Until it wears off.

Great Explorations

Guest poster Jeff Hemmel hits the hills over Thanksgiving.

This past Thanksgiving I found myself in Asheville, North Carolina, the same place I had dragged my bike to several years back with mixed results. What I envisioned then were glorious climbs in the mountains; the reality turned out to be several days of misread directions that never got me to my intended goal. Sure the rides were still fun, but they included making a wrong turn and actually riding several miles on an Interstate highway, almost making it to the Blue Ridge Parkway only to find the road I was on turn to dirt…and constantly finding my knee warmers falling to my ankles. Hey, I’m a Floridian. Until then, I had never even worn them, much less understood how they were supposed to fit.

This time was different. I researched my potential routes, I knew how to properly wear cool weather cycling gear, and although I didn’t bring my own bike, I had a decent rental. My goal? To climb something much bigger than the Intracoastal Waterway bridges that are a highlight of a ride at home.

To be honest, I’m a decent climber. I actually enjoy the challenge, and I’ve discovered I’m fairly good at it. But the climb that I chose in Asheville was both steeper and longer than I had done before. The first, Elk Mountain Scenic Highway, would take me up a lengthy Category 2 (in cycling the lower the number the harder the climb), narrow road with multiple switchbacks. The next, Blue Ridge Parkway, would only throw a steady Category 4 increase at me over the miles, but continue almost as long as I wanted to keep riding. Both also had the unnerving aspect of few or no guardrails, absolutely no shoulder or bike lane, and frighteningly steep drops off the side of the road in many areas. Not to mention the irony of their names (highway, parkway) not matching their tiny, two-lane reality.

View from peak of Elk Mountain Scenic Highway. There was a “TT FINISH” spray-painted on the roadway here…maybe I’ll come back and try it! (Hard to tell from this persective, but this is actually a pretty decent drop, and that valley is WAY down below.) 

Still, I absolutely loved them. I climbed the same route both days I had my bike, winding my way up thousands of feet of elevation. On the second day, I even tacked on some additional mileage on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It was cold, the skies were a mixture of grey clouds and occasional sunshine, and the leaves that just weeks earlier had probably been magnificent in color were now mostly dull, brown, or gone. But still, it was some of the best fun I’ve had on a bike in a long time. The views were fantastic, and the roads surprisingly quiet. A really cool break from my everyday routine.

Funny thing about climbs, they also include descents. Heading back into the city on the aptly named Town Mountain Road, I discovered the sheer thrill of a steep, switchback-filled descent, even if my rental did have sketchy brakes. It was awesome — and frightening — all at the same time. I’ve done steep descents before, but they were relatively straight. These curved back and forth like a roller coaster ride.

At one of the scenic overlooks along Blue Ridge Parkway…

I’ve often said running is an easier sport when you travel, simply because all you need is a pair of sneakers. But a bike truly lets you get out and explore, covering distances under your own power you’d never experience if not for the wheels below.

What about you, have you ever discovered a great ride far away from home? Ever rented a bike in a strange town and discovered something terrific? Let’s hear your stories.

The “Big” Hill

I did a group ride recently that featured a big hill.

“It comes at the turnaround, about 15 miles into the ride,” said a friend, who had done this ride several times before. “It’s a STEEP hill.”

Many people, she said, skip the hill by turning around at the beginning of the road that leads up to it. The hill-loving “freaks” could continue on.

Hm, I thought. This could be interesting. I do a ride in my area that features a tough hill. I often have to jump off the bike halfway up and walk the rest of the way. Several times, I’ve been able to climb it to the top, where I stop and gasp for breath. I wondered how the hill on this new ride would stack up.

In the parking lot, I ran into a guy I’d ridden with a couple of times before, but whom I hadn’t seen in almost a year.

“Hey, you’ve done this ride,” I said. “What’s the deal with the hill? Is it as tough as they say it is?”

“Man, it’s been a long time,” he said. “I think it’ll be all right.”

Not much info there.

The ride started. I fell in behind a couple who, as they neared the turnaround point, started talking about the hill. The guy had apparently done it before.

“It’s cool coming down,” he told his companion. “You do about 42 miles per hour. Of course, going up you do about 7 miles per hour.”

His friend laughed, and said she would skip it.

I made the turn onto the hill road. A typical suburban arterial leading into a subdivision of recently-built homes, it had a grassy median down the middle, curbs at the sides, and smooth asphalt pavement. A few of the faster riders coming back the other way were already hitting the flat at the end of their descent. I started a gentle climb, and wondered how long it would be before the hill got steep.

We reached the built-up part of the subdivision. This was going to be a longish hill, but didn’t seem to be getting much steeper. I still considered it to be a gentle climb.

I swung out to pass some riders, downshifted and spun easily as I rode up the grade. This isn’t steep at all, I thought to myself. And looking ahead, I couldn’t see it getting much steeper.

At a cross street at what appeared to be the summit, several bikers were pulled over, drinking from their water bottles and apparently waiting for friends to catch up.

“Hey, is this it?” I asked.

“Well, if you want to do the whole thing, you keep going down to where the road ends in a cul-de-sac,” said one of them.

I looked ahead. The road did indeed go down, so you’d have to climb to get back to where I was. But that section was no different from what I’d just climbed — just an easy incline. I decided to turn around and head back down.

I pedaled and pedaled, waiting to catch a dip or something that would bring me close to the 42 mph the guy had mentioned earlier. But we had a stiff headwind, and this was not going to be a fast descent. I topped out at 26 mph on the way down.

Back at the restaurant where the ride started, I met up with the acquaintance I’d first asked about the hill at the beginning of the ride.

“How did you get here before me?” I asked. “I know I passed you out there.”

“You did,” he answered. “But we (pointing to another rider) decided to skip the hill and turned around.”

Now, I’m no hillclimber, but come on. This was nothing. The warnings of the people who posted about the ride and who spread tales about the hill were obviously exaggerations. That kind of hyperbole does bikers a disservice, I thought. It scares people away from a hill that they’d probably get some satisfaction climbing. If improving on the bike means being able to do things you weren’t able to do before, people were being robbed of a chance to improve, and to build their confidence to tackle tougher challenges.

I suppose what’s easy for some is tough for others, but given the large number of riders who classified themselves as intermediate (the largest group on the ride), most, if not all of them should have been able to reach the top of this hill with no problem. So if I learned something on this ride, it’s to take dire tales about cycling routes, whether they be hilly, or rough, or heavily trafficked, with a grain of salt.

The Hills, Part II

Guest poster Don Blount continues his account of his struggle with the hills.

Part II

On a recent Saturday I joined a club ride, a roundtrip starting in Wallace, Calif. to Mokelumne Hill, Calif.

I thought this would be a route of about 40 miles with some 3,000 feet of climbing. I thought this would be a good test as I had completed rides of this length with just a little less vertical. In reality the ride was really 48 miles with 3,400 feet of climbing.

We started the day and I was fine. I rode from the middle to near the rear of the pack and stayed within my comfort range.

So far so good.

For a short time I had forgotten that hills are evil, and they hate me. I was actually enjoying myself!

We eventually came to a series of three long rollers. I made the first two but never recovered for the third. As Phil Liggett would say, I had cracked. And in short order, the group was long gone.

A rider riding sweep came upon me and asked if I was dizzy – I was walking or maybe even just standing at this point. She encouraged me to walk and would later tell me that I was weaving when she found me.

The sweeper continued on and disappeared over the hill. A bit later another rider came over the hill toward me. It was the cavalry. He and another rider paced me to the rest stop a few miles away.

I ate a Clif Bar, drank water and a Dr. Pepper and rested. I felt fine.

We left and I thought I would be in good shape on the return trip as the heavy climbing was behind me.

And I was fine most of the way, until we hit the last big climb of the day just after traveling over Pardee Dam, which  borders Calaveras and Amador counties in Northern California. Did I mention that the temperatures had risen and it had become quite toasty?

Now I had never before experienced leg cramps and after this day, I pray that I never do again.

The contractions in my quadriceps and hamstrings were so painful I thought the alien was going to burst through my skin. I unclipped and tried to stretch my legs. I massaged them. I pounded them. I stopped and walked. Yet the cramps came and went as they pleased.

I could not ride the inclines. I struggled to ride the flats. And I hoped my whimpering was inaudible. Any substantial stress on my legs brought on hellacious cramps.

Somehow I made it back to the starting point with the group. I purchased a 32-ounce Gatorade from a convenience store and drank it in what seemed like 30 seconds.

My legs cramped on my drive home and with less than ½ mile to my house, I pulled over because of the cramping.

Yet, I had survived the ride. In reflection people were right. Riding in the hills had brought variety to my workouts, made me a stronger rider and contributed to a weight loss. I would continue to ride them. That night I ordered an 11-28 cassette. I need to be prepared for my next time out.

Yes, I am going to continue riding in the hills, even if they hate me.

The Hills, Part I

In a two-part guest post, Don Blount expresses thoughts I’ll bet many of us share when it comes to climbing hills.

Part I

Beautiful scenery goes along with riding in the hills, including this view of Camanche Lake in Amador County, California.

I have always suspected that hills hate me. Maybe not when I am walking or driving a car, during those times they seem friendly enough. But the moment I approach a hill while riding a bike, it seems that hill’s goal becomes to not allow me to get up to the top of it. Sometimes it throws me down with a vengeance, causing me great pain and suffering.

Being a peaceful man, I usually take the path of least resistance and avoid hills. That’s easy enough where I live as I can ride for miles and not approach a grade of more than 4 percent.

For the most part, I am fine with this. I do not consider myself a climber. At 5-feet, 9-inches tall and 194 pounds, I am much more comfortable on the flats and inclines. If it is short enough for me to power up with my compact crankset and 12-25 cassette, then I am game to ride it.

But people keep uttering the benefits of riding hills. “Hills will make you stronger,” they say. “Hills will make you a better rider.” And they always end with the same words: “To become stronger in the hills, you have to ride in the hills.”

To get to real climbs with grades of 8 or 9 percent or more, I have to travel about 23 miles east to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains in Northern California.

Rarely are those hills friendly and allow me to leave with my dignity. Most of the times they are hard and determined to show me that I am not welcomed there.

So wanting to test my fitness I joined a late May club ride of 40 miles with about 2,300 feet of climbing. I survived but barely. Most of the ride I had a good look at just about everyone’s back.

After that ride I decided to commit to becoming better in the hills. A few weeks later I returned alone and did a similar solo ride of about 40 miles with 2,300 feet of climbing. I completed it.

I became a student of climbing. I read what I could find I watched videos. I watched real climbers. I meditated on climbing and channeled those who had worn the polka dot jersey.

And I went out on the club ride that kicked my rear earlier. I was in better condition, I used what I had learned, and I completed the ride successfully. Progress I thought. Maybe the hills did not hate me after all? Maybe it was time for another test, a club ride?

I put it on my schedule but oh, how little did I know that deep down hills are evil.

Watch Bike Noob for the second part of Don’s saga of the hills.

Neighborhood Hills

“You know what would be cool?” asked my friend David a few months back. “If we worked out a route that hit all the hills in this area, say in a five-mile radius.”

We might live on the edge of the Texas Hill Country (The main drag through our neighborhood is called Escarpment), but the legendary  hills of Austin don’t materialize until you’re about eight miles west of us, or even farther north. We’ve got hills, but they’re not biggies.

However, when I did a hills training session with Austin Cycle Camp back in November, they drilled us on what I considered to be pretty wimpy hills, right in my backyard. So I thought it would be fun to try David’s idea.

Leaving my house, I rode two miles north to Convict Hill. I often ride the residential streets that cover the hill, and today I took the road that runs right up the hillside. Convict Hill Road isn’t tough, but sets the table for the climbing that will come.

Convict Hill Road. Convict labor was used here in the 1880s to quarry limestone for the then-new Texas state capitol building.

Once atop Convict Hill, a number of options await. I like to work my way over to Wolf Creek Pass. It’s a short, curving stretch, and I can stand on the pedals to see how high a gear I can push to the top.

Wolf Creek Pass. Short, but steep. Well, kinda.

After a two-block rest, I can take Hill Oaks down, then turn around and come back up. I don’t like Hill Oaks. At the bottom, there’s almost no runout before it hits U.S. 290 – a busy highway. If I do a white-knuckle brake before the bottom, Hill Oaks is a tester of a climb coming back. Our club president does repeats on Hill Oaks.

You can get an idea of the steepness of Hill Oaks by the way it drops off. At right, the short runout at the bottom into U.S. 290.

I prefer the next street over. The aforementioned Wolf Creek Pass also heads down the hillside to U.S. 290, but it’s a somewhat more civilized descent. The climb back up isn’t quite as steep as Hill Oaks, but it’ll do.

Wolf Creek Pass again, this time looking up from U.S. 290.

One more detour before we leave Convict Hill. Poncha Pass is another short hill, but also steep. It starts easy, but gets worse the closer to the top you get.

Poncha Pass is your basic suburban-style residential street.

For every climb, there’s a descent. It’s easy to approach 35 mph going down Convict Hill Road in the marked bike lane. That’s my reward for the hill work. Now, we head south. Just blocks from my house, Allerton Avenue rises to the top of another hill. This one is a longish grade, not all that steep, but it makes you work.

Allerton curves left up to the house to the upper left of the car.

Now, we’ll head into the Circle C Ranch section of southwest Austin. And then head out immediately, as we pick up the Mopac loop. Mopac turns west and becomes State Highway 45, and features “Escarpment Hill,” which ends at Escarpment Blvd.

Mopac/SH 45 is one of the more popular cycling routes in Austin. This is “Escarpment Hill.”

Escarpment Hill is another long, not particularly steep climb. It used to kick my butt, and still kicks my wife’s. Now, I like to see how high a cadence I can maintain as I climb it in one of my big ring gears.

At Escarpment Blvd., we can turn right and head down an easy hill past the fire station. The uphill side is where I did hill repeats with Austin Cycle Camp. Not tough, until you do it time after time — each time in a higher gear.

Escarpment Blvd., looking up toward SH 45.

One of the first neighborhood climbs David showed me when I was truly a noob biker was Savin Hill Lane. Any street with the name “Hill” in it has to have something going for it, right? This is another residential street that starts with a short, steepish climb, then levels out, then climbs again.

Savin Hill Lane.

An acquaintance of mine from northeast Austin rides all the way down here just to do Savin Hill repeats. He’ll do it five times, and then considers himself ready for most anything.

Whew! I’m a bit knackered after all that. Time to head home. But there’s one more hill before I get there — H-E-B Hill. H-E-B, for non-Texans, is a big supermarket chain. Escarpment Blvd. going north from Circle C Ranch climbs past the supermarket entrance. This is where the “old guy” smoked me many moons ago. Now, I like to attack the hill — see if I can maintain a 100 rpm cadence all the way to the top. I usually run out of gas just before I get there.

H-E-B Hill.

If you’ve had the patience to sit through all these rather dull photos of rather middling hills, I understand that you’ve got way better hills where you live. Now, I don’t own a GPS device, so my elevation readings come from Map My Ride, which I think is notoriously inaccurate. But, it shows grades of 20 percent for short sections of Wolf Creek and Hill Oaks. Convict Hill hits 17 percent at one point. Escarpment Hill is 11 percent at its steepest point, but mostly 3-5 percent. HEB Hill is 6 percent.

And yes, I know how to find the “real” Austin hills. But Lost Creek, Courtyard, Ladera Norte and Jester are not in my neighborhood. Most are farther away than I care to ride to tackle hills. My point here is that you can make a rigorous hill workout almost anywhere. You can ride this whole route (about 17 miles) or do what I more typically do — pick a hill and ride it several times. Start at a low cadence — say, 70 rpm — and see if you can do it at a higher rate each time. Or start in an easy gear, and go up one for each repeat.

Believe me, even with easy grades, if you do these kinds of repeats, you’ll get better on hills.

The Climb

Guest poster Jeff Hemmel tracks his relationship with a hill, from hate — to love-hate — to love.

I live in Florida. That means I ride lots and lots of flat roads, and never leave the big ring. The biggest hills I get are a pair of bridges over the Intracoastal Waterway, decent in many respects but barely a speed bump for any serious climber.

Every summer, however, I get to escape to the Adirondacks in New York State (the perks of a work-from-home journalist), and there, awaiting me like my own mythical Ventoux, is The Climb.

Okay, it’s really just a big hill, less than 2.5 miles in total. But to me it’s become somewhat of a yardstick to measure my cycling fitness. The hill rises to only about a 5 percent grade by mile 1, but throws a 9 percent grade at you during mile 2. A lot of people hate that climb, but in my own perverse way, I’ve grown to love it.

A number of years ago, following a problematic ACL reconstruction, I tackled the hill as a challenge on a mountain bike. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure I could make it the first time. When I first climbed it on my road bike, I seriously questioned whether I could do it on my compact double without the safety net of a third ring. (Believe me, I got down to the smallest cog in my cassette!) Now, I return to that hill at the end of every ride, no matter how many miles I’ve put in. The climb has changed from “can I get up it” to “how many miles can I ride and still get up it” to now just a “time to get up it” conclusion to my ride. (I’ve even found another one to throw in mid-route, but that’s another story…)

Yes, there is one other way to return home that’s far less steep. But to me, tackling the hill at the end of my rides is the only way to go.

By now, I’ve gotten to know it intimately. I know where the house is that sometimes has sweet corn and vegetables for sale, all on the honor system. I know the dip that at one time signified I was about to be eaten by the most vicious dog I’ve ever met, but now just signifies I’m about to drop into the small ring as the toughest section lies ahead. And I know the secluded spot where I once felt like someone was watching me, only to discover a deer standing inches away as I rode past.

And starting this year, I also know just how long it takes me to get to the top. Like some kind of glutton for punishment, I started timing myself.

Summer’s winding down and I’m returning home, back to the flat, congested roads I’ve ridden time and time again. Yesterday I clocked my fastest ascent of the summer. Doing so, however, made me realize it’s not how fast I get up the hill that’s important, it’s the climb itself — and all its idiosyncrasies and personal meanings — that I most enjoy.

I’m going to miss it.