Topography: theory and practice

When it comes to hills, cyclists generally take sides. I’m a climber. I may noodle and lag a bit on the lowlands, but hills summon my fighting spirit. This is something of a reflex, and I’ve never received much in the way of pro advice on how to approach a climb.

So when I showed up to Sorella Forte’s hill climbing clinic a couple weeks back, I was itching to get learn some climbing theory and put it into practice. We met at Glen Otto Park in Troutdale, a base camp for any number of summits. We huddled under a canopy at some picnic tables while two of the expert Sorella climbers shared their tips and techniques. Before rolling out, we were issued the mantra “I love hills.”

Our first task was to complete two ten minute intervals at an even effort – not gasping and wheezing, but a good solid exertion. The goal was for us to keep pedaling steady, changing gears as the terrain changed beneath us. We climbed, slowly at first, then steeper. I hunkered into a familiar groove. I felt strong. But then the road leveled out, dipped slightly. My ten minutes were not up. Hard just got harder. And suddenly, I had a different relationship with topography.

(The author, crushing the editor on an uphill section of road.)

Descending isn’t something I had taken very seriously until then. I figure, eh, I’m small; of course I’m not going to go downhill as fast as bigger folks. And besides, I’m a little chicken. I’ve always focused on the getting to the top. The uphill is the worthy opponent. The uphill is where heroes are made, right? Perhaps when you are riding alone or with a buddy, but not when you are in a pack hell-bent on going fast. The next uphill begins at the top of this one. And if I pause to throw myself an imaginary victory party at the crest, I will struggle all the harder to catch the wheel of powerful descending draft. There’s more to this than I had bargained for.

Hills. I love ‘em. But they have a whole other side.