What am agony?
Who are mountain?
These and other questions have challenged man -- or, at the very least, me -- for epochs.
Fortuitously, I feel I've discovered the answer to both questions, which, quite simply am/are: Diablo. Allow me to preface.
Very good friend, champion beardsman and quite possible Faustian dealmaker Alec Castellanos proposed a group ride which, among other things, involved passing through the Oakland hills and a smattering of East Bay municipalities before arriving -- 40 miles and 3500 vertical feet later -- at the base of Mt. Diablo, itself a Hors Categorie climb.
This is what professionals might simply classify as a banancakes shithouse plan.
And it was a wild success.
In the simplest of terms, the group owned what would be characterized as an exhausting ride by any fair minded person. And while I clearly have room for progress before we assault the Pyrenees, I felt solid in plowing up a brutal climb on a hot day among a very accomplished cohort.
Alec was even kind enough to snap a photo of me, trying desperately to maintain muscle control at the summit.
You can barely see the ass cramp.
And the reward for that effort? Notwithstanding a bitchin' spread put on by ride participant and unstoppable force Jeff Mellen at his house in Concord, I had to save room for my classic post-ride meal.
Full Masala Blowout.
As with all good Indian food, the order involves something of a two-stage blowout, the latter of which might be thought of more as a... "consequence".
Great ride. Great folks. We'll get back after it with the old man next weekend... We're on the cusp of the Chico Wildflower after all.
Time to naan it.
Colin