Tell me about the biggest wave you’ve ever ridden, I said. Tell me what it felt like to stand on top of the world, feel the rush of water under your feet, and hear the ocean’s roar surround you. Tell me about the way the wind whipped the spray in your face. We were nowhere near the ocean.

Somewhere in Colorado, I was grinding up a climb, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it. So, I said, turning to my friend Josh, tell me a story.

I had started the day confident in a sun shining, birds chirping kind of way. My freshly cleaned bike gleamed, and the drivetrain spun soundlessly. Even a creak in my bike’s suspension that I could never quite pinpoint had decided to take a nap. The day’s plan called for a climb followed by a long descent. By a mathematical sleight of hand, the descent added up to longer than the climb. It was going to be the most perfect ride ever.

When I got dropped straight out of the parking lot, I assumed it was just a minor hiccup along the beautiful road to success. Just getting warmed up, I told myself. Everything is going to be fine. This was totally wrong. The more I pedaled, the slower my bike moved. I did not think such a reversal of cause and effect was possible. It turns out that there are many things I have yet to imagine in this life. A little baby roller—hardly more than a whalefart—rose to the trailhead. I got dropped there, too.