We know less about the deepest points on our planet than we do about the surface of Mars. More than 6,600 individuals have summited Mount Everest, and yet only 27 have reached Challenger Deep, the deepest point of our ocean. Located at the bottom of the Mariana Trench in the western Pacific Ocean, this pitch-black canyon lies 35,814 feet below the surface.

Pulled perhaps by the human tendency to seek out places unknown and feats unconquered, cyclists have, in the last half-decade or so, become entranced by the concept of “Everesting.” The idea is simple: Pick any hill, anywhere in the world, and ride repeats of it in one go until you finally accumulate 8,848 meters (29,029 feet) of elevation gain. This concept has been accomplished via road and mountain bike over 27,000 times by those wishing to prove indefatigable spirit and quads. Pretty cool, if you’re into that sort of thing.

But, as much as I enjoy mountain biking, I don’t much fancy the idea of staring at my handlebars for 10 hours or more in search of a Strava file, nor do I have machinations that I will learn something world-shattering about my psyche during such a masochistic quest. As both a professional geologist and an amateur ethnogeographer, I’ve instead come to find an obsession with depth, in both the spatial and temporal senses, more so than distance or speed. The fixation on Everest, seemingly being that of conquering a hill and perhaps being the fastest to do so, does not exactly speak to me as meaningful or fun.