You think you know what pain is until you start climbing. Until you find yourself on a long stretch of road that feels more like a mountain than just a hill.
Every pedal stroke takes you higher, closer to a kind of madness. Your thighs are burning, your calves are cramped up tight, and your lungs feel like they’re about to burst. But there’s something about it, something magnetic. You can’t quit. You won’t quit. You keep going, even when every inch of you is telling you to stop, to turn around, to just find a flat road and call it a day.
The first time I really climbed, I thought I was going to die.
I had my bike, a good bike. I had my gear—shoes that clip in, helmet on tight, heart racing. I was ready. Or so I thought. The first incline hit, and I was immediately knocked down to reality. I couldn’t even keep my pace steady. My legs burned like I’d stuck them in a fire, my heart rate shot up like I was trying to outrun a bear, and my breath came in ragged gasps.
I looked up, and the hill just kept going, mocking me, daring me to keep going. I almost stopped, I almost turned back. But I didn’t. And that’s the moment when you start to realize what climbing really is.
Battling Your Body
When you climb, you’re not just pedaling your way to the top. You’re tearing your body down in a way that forces it to build itself back up stronger.
At first, you don’t see it. It’s easy to get caught up in the sweat, the struggle, the pain. You think the climb is just about reaching the top. But it’s more than that. It’s about the process—the way the body adapts, the way your muscles start to recognize the pattern of the climb and begin to deal with the stress in ways you didn’t think possible.
And it’s brutal. It’s hard to accept that you have to go through hell to get to heaven. But you do.
Every time you climb, your quads scream, your hamstrings cry, and you wonder if your legs will ever feel the same. But they do. Slowly, your muscles start to figure it out. They start to strengthen in ways they didn’t before. Your body learns how to distribute the load differently.
Your heart learns to pump blood more efficiently. And before you know it, the climbs that used to feel impossible start to feel, well, a little easier.
The pain doesn’t go away—it just shifts. The weight on your legs becomes a familiar companion. And what was once unbearable becomes something you can control.
It’s not just about strength. It’s about endurance. You learn how to pace yourself, how to find that sweet spot where the effort is hard but sustainable. You learn how to ride within yourself. It’s like a constant negotiation with your body, trying to find that place where the pain is enough to keep you going, but not enough to stop you dead in your tracks.
You push past the moments when your body wants to quit, because you know that each pedal stroke is doing something. Your muscles are growing. Your heart is getting stronger. And you’re becoming the kind of rider who can take on the hardest hills without blinking.
The Slow Grind: Embracing the Climb at Your Own Pace
People think they know what climbing is all about, but most of them haven’t got the slightest clue. They think it’s all about pushing harder, cranking out more force, grinding your ass into the saddle until you’re gasping like a fish in the sun. But that’s where they screw up.
The key to climbing isn’t about fighting the hill, it’s about finding a rhythm with it, a way to make that steep bastard a part of you. The real secret? Lemond nailed it when he said, “It never gets easier. You just go faster.” Sure, you’ve heard it a million times, but most of you don’t get what that means. It’s not some flashy quote for the cycling brochure. It’s a fucking truth that most can’t see because they’re too busy sweating, swearing, and spinning themselves into oblivion.
You ever stop and think about why it feels so hard? That’s where you get lost. You confuse force with power, and that’s where you blow it. Force? That’s the muscle behind your legs, the grunt you make pushing those pedals. Power? Power is how quickly you burn through that muscle. It’s not about pressing harder, it’s about pressing smarter. It’s not the hill that’s hard, it’s the speed at which you’re turning your legs that makes it feel like you’re dragging a fucking truck up the slope.
If you’ve got the strength to keep pushing those pedals, you’ve got the power to choose how much you want to burn. So yeah, you’re struggling—your legs are screaming, your lungs are on fire. But you don’t have to keep pushing yourself into a frenzy. You can slow down, ease off the throttle, and the whole thing gets a little bit more manageable. It’s not magic, it’s physics. When you slow it down, you’re not expending energy at such a frantic pace. Sure, it’s less efficient, but it won’t kill you.
What Lemond’s saying is simple: you’ve got more control over the ride than you think. The hill doesn’t get easier, but you get faster at dealing with it. It’s like that bullshit about “All hills are flat.” You ever heard that one? It’s the same thing. If it feels like you’re about to die, it’s because you’re too busy trying to outrun the mountain. Slow the fuck down. Let it come to you.
I know what you’re thinking—there’s no way slowing down can make it easier. I must be a lunatic. But let me give you a little experiment. Try doing a push-up as fast as you can—yeah, you can probably knock out a few without breaking a sweat. Now do them slow. Real slow. All of a sudden, your muscles are screaming, the burn is real. Cycling’s the same thing. When you slow the pedals down, you’re making those muscles do the work. And that’s how the pros do it. They don’t go flying up the hill like maniacs. No, they grind it out with smooth, controlled strokes. The power isn’t in the force, it’s in the pace.
Now, yeah, you’ve got to be strong enough to pull it off. But once you’ve built the strength, you control the effort. It’s like turning the dial on a stereo. Crank the speed up and you burn through the energy faster, but you lose control. Slow it down and you control the burn. Once your legs can handle the grind, it’s not about muscling through it, it’s about pacing the fuck out of it.
I’ll tell you this—I dig the grind. The slow, steady pace where the wind’s not in your face, the world’s not blurring by, and it’s just you, the bike, and the road. I love how the road twists and turns, how the mountain blocks the wind, how the world gets smaller and quieter as you climb. That’s the beauty of it. You don’t need to rush. You don’t need to be a hero. You just need to pedal, at your own damn pace, and let the hill fall away beneath you. That’s where the joy is, in the slow, steady rhythm of the climb. It’s the only way to really enjoy the ride.
The Mental Strength: Fighting Yourself
The real battle, though, isn’t with the mountain or the road. It’s with your mind.
The mental side of climbing is where the real work happens. Sure, the body gets tired, the muscles get sore, but your mind? That’s where you either win or lose.
And you learn that the climb isn’t just about pushing your body; it’s about pushing your mind to stay in the game when everything inside of you wants to quit.
At first, the mental game is exhausting. The self-doubt creeps in fast. You wonder if you’re built for this. You wonder if you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.
The voices in your head tell you that it’s too much, that you should just quit and try something easier. And when you’re standing there, halfway up a climb, feeling like you’re stuck in the quicksand, it’s hard to argue with them.
Your body aches, your breath is ragged, and the top of the hill looks like it’s a hundred miles away. But you don’t stop. You can’t. The voices keep telling you to quit, but you start to tell them, “No. I’m not done. Not yet.”
It’s at that moment when the climb shifts from a physical challenge to a mental one.
You start to see that the pain is temporary. You start to realize that every moment of agony is just another step toward something bigger.
You’re not climbing for the top. You’re climbing to prove to yourself that you can.
And every time you fight that voice in your head, every time you tell it to shut the hell up and keep pedaling, you grow stronger mentally. It’s not just about building your body; it’s about building your resolve.
The Emotional Climb: Victory Through Struggle
And then there’s the emotional payoff. That’s what you get after every climb, even if you don’t feel it in the moment. The emotional side of climbing is a strange one because it’s easy to dismiss.
After all, what’s so emotional about riding a bike up a hill?
But when you’re halfway up, and you’re not sure if you can keep going, there’s a raw, ugly part of you that starts to rise up. The part that feels like a failure, like you’re not good enough, like you can’t do this.
And when you finally get to the top, when you crest that hill, there’s a wave of relief that washes over you. It’s like you’ve been holding your breath for an hour, and now, finally, you can exhale.
There’s an emotional release that comes with finishing a climb. It’s not just about the victory of reaching the top; it’s about the victory over yourself. Every climb teaches you something.
It teaches you that you can endure. It teaches you that you can push through even when everything seems impossible. And when you reach the top, when you look down at the road you just conquered, there’s a sense of peace.
You’re exhausted, sure, but you’re also proud. Proud that you didn’t quit, proud that you kept going, proud that you’re stronger than you were when you started.
That pride? It’s earned. It’s not handed to you. You fought for it.
Emotional Benefits of Climbing
| Before Climbing | After Regular Climbing |
|---|---|
| Sense of Accomplishment | Rare, fleeting |
| Frustration | Overwhelming |
| Pride | Hard to find |
| Gratitude | Rarely felt |
Every time you climb, you gain something. It’s not always obvious at first. But it’s there, waiting for you to realize it. You might not notice the change in your legs right away, or the way your breath becomes more controlled, or how your mind gets stronger with each pedal stroke.
But after a while, you start to see it. The person you were before the climb is not the same person you are after it.
And that’s the beauty of climbing. It doesn’t just change your body—it changes your whole damn life.
So, yeah, climbing isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be. It’s not about making things easier for yourself—it’s about making yourself better.
It’s about pushing through the pain, pushing through the doubt, and learning that you are capable of more than you thought. It’s about proving to yourself that you can handle the struggle and come out the other side stronger, both physically and mentally.
The road will always be tough. The climbs will always be hard. But every time you make it to the top, you’re a little bit stronger, a little bit more powerful, a little bit more alive.
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