I almost vomited while riding my bike. Almost.
The day's conditions were a perfect storm for the explosive chundering of energy drink and Clif bars. Failing to start at the 'optimistic' time of 10am, I ventured out at the sizzling hour of 1pm. Seeing how the big ride in July is expected to be considerably warmer, I decided that it would be a good time to start conditioning my body to handle the scorching heat of 80 degrees. The days plan was to ride the 64-mile metric century route of the Seven Hills of Kirkland. Seeing how this is an extended route, there are actually 11 hills, totaling 4700 feet of climbing. I didn't want to drive my car to the official 7HK starting point at the Kirkland Marina Park, so I decided to ride approximately 9 miles north on the Burke-Gilman trail until I linked up to the ride route near Bothell.
Things went a little wacky 10 miles into the ride. As some people know, I have the navigation skills of a blind, deaf and mute amputee with a balance-impairing ear infection. Misreading one of the road markers, I drifted off by a mile or so. After sheepishly coasting down hills while thinking “will I be climbing back up this way if I'm actually off course?” and indeed backtracking up those roads again, I rode back to where I was led astray and found my bearings.
At mile 20, the metric century route branches off further east, tacking on two extra hills and 20 miles to the traditional 7HK. At this point, the heat was starting to get to me. I thought I was staying well hydrated and fed, but the heat makes me very susceptible to headaches. I would be fine with the discomfort were I stationary, but the bumps and imperfections in the road compounded the headache considerably. Due to this slightly-altered mind state, I began to think silly thoughts.
Trudging along at a steady pace up Novelty Hill, I decided to rename the landmark to Nubile Hill; imagining it to be the exclusive neighborhood for all the attractive young women of the surrounding area. Other than some shapely trees and the occasional buxom mailbox (all with great personalities, I'm sure), there is no evidence to qualify this renaming, but that is what exhaustion can do to an impressionable mind. Ultimately, my paranoia of the opposite sex began to set, leading me to believe that the denizens of Nubile Hill would detect my presence, deem me a blight upon their Valhalla of Hotness, and would run me off the premises with a posse mounted on gleaming-white unicorns. Of course, this unjustified fear made me pedal faster, thus making it a win-win situation for myself and my imagined oppressors.
Reaching the Kirkland Marina at mile 50, I felt like I was in the homestretch. Continuing the remaining 10 miles back to the Burke-Gilman, I cleared Market Hill and Juanita Hill without any drama. But it would be Seminary Hill that would be my vomit temptress of the day. For the most part, it is not the most extraordinary hill. What makes it interesting is its length and curviness. At the approach, I decided to just sit and spin my way to the top. For the first couple of blind upward curves I was fine, but with no leveling of the road to allow some recovery time, the lactic acid started to build up. Just when I thought the summit was around the next blind right-hand bend, the road continued to curve upwards. Sadly, with a name like ‘Seminary Hill’, the thought of child molester priests did not incite the same motivation as that of the lovely ladies of Nubile Hill. At some point, I started to wobble and considered stopping for a breather. But the stubborn portion of my brain by the name of 'Pride' decided to interject:
"Are you serious? If we stop now, you might as well put the bike down and catch the next bus to Losertown. Population: You. Plus, I think I see a child molester hiding behind the bushes up ahead. Peddle faster, dammit.”
My body, in all its infinite wisdom in self-preservation, suggested "Get bent. Seriously. Get bent. I want to puke and I don’t want to get any on our clothes."
Pride retorted "Want to puke or need to puke? Unless you've been injected by a poisonous dart from one of those pissed off hot chicks from Nubile Hill and NEED to expel the toxins, I suggest you shut your cake hole. The child molester is gaining on us- hurry up”.
“You're an asshole” Said Body.
“Duh. Didn't you get the memo? Oh, by the way, you're fat.” Pride contemptuously replied.
And so forth. To be honest, the urge to vomit could have been more serious; I had yet to sense the acrid taste in mouth and my stomach was not at full boil, but the big lump in my throat had turned on its 'outgoing traffic only' sign, suggesting that a hearty chundering was about to occur.
Alas, with a stoplight ahead and the course marker indicating a left hand decline, salvation was at hand. Summiting the hill, I dropped my bike and took a seat in the dirt. After a 5 minute breather, I ventured on without any further drama. My body was no longer on 'imminent launch' mode, so I took an energy gel and finished off the last of my fig newtons.
Rolling into my driveway, the day’s mileage totaled 85 miles (64 mile route + 18 mile transit from the trail + 3 miles worth of straying off course). I've been more exhausted from other rides, but I collapsing like a rag doll onto my lawn, which felt really, really good. As I was laying in the fetal position, I ran through the day’s lessons for the next training session: eat and drink even more, start riding earlier in the day, bring ibuprofen for headaches, and most importantly, talk to the imagined hot girls on Nubile Hill.
Violence only begets more violence, thus the rifle only shoots tightly packed kittens that inflate to full size after exiting the barrel. Kittens. With sniper rifles. Adorably genius. 
