Another Year, Another Mogollon

Today marked my -- ahem-- sixth time up that nasty, foul, rotting, diseased, petulant brute of a climb. The Mogollon (for newbies it's pronounced "mo-goy-OWN" and if you want to read about my earlier misadventures on that hateful mountain, start here). I have very few nice things to say about that climb in the same way that someone who's about to be executed has very few nice things to say about his executioner. I'm sure many executioners are nice guys. They probably coach little league, volunteer at the YMCA, and host poker night for their pals twice per month. But you can't blame the man in the electric chair for harboring a bit of a grudge; the very nature their relationship breeds animosity. Likewise, under different circumstances, I'm sure the Mogollon is a beautiful stretch of road to pedal a bike up. I bet the view is fantastic from up there, and the air is clean, and it feels great to get to the top -- but I wouldn't know because every goddam time I climb that road, I'm seeing stars, and I've just gone so hard I've tricked my body into thinking I'm dying. Here's what it feels like to race to the top of the Mogollon (thanks to Lyne at PodiumInsight):

Tyler just wants to forget...

Matt miiiiight be about to puke. Or maybe he already did...

"Long blue tunnel...so pretty...want to touch the lights..." -- Chris Baldwin

Here's the lightning version of what happened, in haiku form:

Quick break. Easy day.

Fetched some bottles, rode the front.

Dropped on Mogollon.

That's pretty much the same story for everyone else in the race, except for Rory Sutherland who won the thing. Nice job Rory.

What!? My name's RORY! Of course I won.