A few nights ago I rode up the 7th Street hill. (The what?) 7th street climbs about 60 feet over a third of a mile. (So? Big deal.) About 50 feet of the climb is in the last tenth. I’ve attempted this hill three times. The first two were failures. Big, giant, pathetic failures. Not even half-way up. But a few nights ago I made it. Lowest gear I had, out of breath a few feet into the climb, chest pounding. I could feel the temperature rising in my chest. At first I thought I was probably having a heart attack, because that would be par for the course, but then I remembered reading about those guys who attempt to break the hour record and how the surface temperature of their skin can reach 107F. That kept me going. So yeah, I’m just like those guys now. Besides, it felt like an hour.
Got to the top, wobbly legs, couldn’t breathe, hands were aching (wtf?), and I tried to grunt out “Take that, bitch.” Instead, I choked on some saliva.
I am the King of 7th Street.