6 Mile Canyon is a stupid, stupid road from Dayton up to Virginia City. It's got a mellow average grade, but that's an evil trick. The first couple miles are quite flat, the next couple are easy to moderate, and the last couple, particularly the very last half mile, lie somewhere between extreme discomfort and apocalyptic. Average grade, my ass. This is an awful 5.8 mile stretch of road. It faces east, too, so that morning sun begins the baking process while Reno's still in the shade.
Ethel took all these photos. Sadly, the one of the gaggle of baby quail didn't come out.
Don't believe me that the top is steep?
Weaving like a drunken sailor
The face of suffering
13 years old and gleefully free from mass
And now, Pain, Suffering, and Doubt: A Presentation of Eliot's Race as a Play in Three Acts:
I was able to keep it in the big ring for the first 18 or so minutes, but the last half mile is a granny gear affair. And we can see the finish line, less than a quarter mile away, but it takes an interminable amount of time to get there. That's Demoralizing with a capital D.
I rode the flatter parts considerably harder this year than last year; the top is going to suck no matter what so "saving" is a rather subjective strategy.
I found a shady tree to collapse under and waited about 10 minutes for my heart rate to descend from Meteoric to Frightened Hamster. I did manage to make it up the hill a minute and a half faster than I did last year, so that's good, unless you judge it in the sense of how many years it took off my life.
Of course, Max showed up to collect $100 for breaking his own course record, taking another minute out of what he did last year. He's still really skinny. I'm hoping he discovers beer and/or fried food before the next race.
I collected $5 and a pint glass. It's my first monetary prize for any sort of athletic pursuit. Baller!
Anyhow, that's the latest news from our modest local hillclimb series, glorious punishment that it is. 'Til next time...
