A Good Hill

By Stan Purdum

Cyclists talk funny. Take the word “good,” for example. Veteran riders apply this adjective indiscriminately to hills of all sizes. To know what they mean, you’ve got to be into the spirit of the conversation. Here are some samples.

“Don’t worry. It’s a good hill.” (Translation: “It’s just a little hump in the road. You won’t have any trouble handling it.”)

“There’s a good approach to the hill.” (“You launch yourself onto the hill from a downgrade. Therefore, you’ll have enough impetus to carry you part-way up the hill.”)

“You have three good hills before you get there.” (“Plan on taking twice as long to reach your destination as you thought.”)

“This hill is a good test of your climbing ability.” (“Enjoy the downhill portion; you’ll have earned it.”)

“You’ll feel good when you reach the top.” (“Yeah. Like pounding your head against the wall feels good when you stop.”)

“You’ve got a goooood hill coming up.” (“The grade is so steep that the blacktop keeps sliding off. You’re gonna die.”)

Of course, the word “hill” is itself bicycle jargon for anything from a slight rise in the road to a daylong climb over the Continental Divide.

Surprisingly though, cyclists seldom miscommunicate with one another about hills. The speaker’s hand motions, body language and the presence or absence of a diabolical smile usually fill any gap in the vocabulary itself.

Because “good” covers so many conditions, bikers pay close attention when a fellow rider talks about a hill without using “good,” for that likely means that there was something about the incline that the rider truly didn’t like.

Consider my personal nemesis: a hill within my usual riding territory so nasty that I tackle it only when I want a measure of my hill-climbing conditioning. In fact, it took me three seasons of attempts before I could reach the top without dismounting and walking the bike the last few hundred yards.

This particular hill is deceptive, because the first sight of it comes while wheeling down a spectacular decline that allows a substantial speed buildup. But, like an armed camp surrounded with land mines to deplete any force moving against it, this hill guards itself with speed-sapping topography.

First, the entrance downgrade concludes with a tight “S” curve that forces me to slow down so as not to careen off the edge of the road. Then the road ascends a short but steep foothill; I’m standing on the pedals by the time I top that.

But the real killer — the final approach to the hill proper — looks like a gentle downgrade. Actually, that’s an optical illusion that led me, when meeting it for the first time, to relax and try coasting. Not only does this stretch not drop at all; it actually climbs. If I stop pedaling, I lose ground. I’ve yet to figure out how such a significant incline can look like a down-slope, but the result is that when I finally reach the real hill, I’ve lost absolutely all momentum.

It’s in that tired, near standstill state that I tackle the final grade, a struggle of downshifting, grunting and copious perspiration.

Since my first losing attack on the hill, I’ve gotten in better physical shape and added lower gears and a “granny” chainring to my bike. Now, I can attain the top, usually grinding almost to a stop before finally rolling over the crest.

It’s a good hill.

—From Stan’s book, Roll Around Heaven All Day

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Stan Purdum has ridden several long-distance bike trips, including an across-America ride recounted in his book Roll Around Heaven All Day, and a trek on U.S. 62, from Niagara Falls, New York, to El Paso, Texas, the subject of his book Playing in Traffic. Stan, a freelance writer and editor, lives in Ohio. See more at www.StanPurdum.com.