In Kansas most bike riding is a matter of pushing hard on the flats, but there is an occasional rise in the road. I don't remember when I came to be persuaded of this, but some time in the past three or four years I decided that every incline I encountered on a regular basis needed a name. So every slope within nine or ten miles of home has a special Mikey-given moniker. (No one else would give them names. Some wouldn't even recognize them as hills.)
The first hill to the east is Mock Hill, named not because it's so awful that I feel it jeering my futile efforts to maintain speed, but for the folks whose house sit atop it. Mock is their last name. The second slope is Bruce Hill. Same reason. Both these hills are within five miles of home. The next closest hill to the east is Dog Hill. A dog lives in the house at the crest of it. Thankfully, a lazy, old dog that barks but does not bite...or chase bicyclists. Then there's Nine-mile hill. This one starts at mile eight and ends at mile nine. Couldn't think of anything more creative, so the name stuck. There are no more named hills to the east.
To the west I have only granted names to two hills. The first, starting about four miles out of town, is Drouhard Hill, named after the Drouhard family who live at the top of said incline. The second is the bridge over the railroad tracks at Danville. Must've been dreaming of the Tour de France when I named it L'Alpe d'Danville. My apologies to the French whose language I have slaughtered and to the majestic Alps who scoff, I'm sure, at overpasses and such. There are no further climbs to the west. At least none close enough to earn a nickname.
Why am I telling you all this? It's my blog. I can say what I want.
P.S. I seldom travel north and south, so all the hills on Argonia Road will remain nameless. Poor things.
No comments:
Post a Comment