Dead Mans Hill

Just down the road from my home in Utah County is a massive hill, it looks something like this:

Yesterday as Dad and I were finishing up a training ride he asks, "Do you have a preference of which hill you want to climb?" I thought a little and decided I didn't, so we set a route home that hits a longer hill, but is still fairly steep. A few minutes later he tells me he's going to take the short, REALLY steep hill we affectionately refer to as Dead Mans Hill. "What changed your mind?" I asked. "I'm going to have to stop anyway, at least that hill is shorter." 

Well that's that. We head up Dead Mans Hill after a short break at the bottom. The whole time I thought about how much I love climbing and that this is going to be a great finish, to an awesome ride.

I hit the hill. Easy, piece of cake, pfft, Dead Mans Hill, what a dumb name! And then I hit the hill. I'm barely moving. My quads start screaming, I check to make sure I'm in my lowest gear. Suddenly the name seems very fitting. But I'm not smart enough to pull over and un-clip with dignity. 

I look up and see the top of the hill about 50 feet in front of me. I focus on putting all my 115 pounds on the pedal and I realize, I'm not moving. My bike tips over. I land in a heap on the road, Dad is standing at the base of the hill laughing at me. (He chose to un-clip further down the hill and walk up the steep part.)

Dead Mans Hill: 1

Katherine: 0

Don't worry, no hill humiliates me and get's away with it.