Next pinecone ... next pinecone ... next pinecone ...
... as I stare at the pinecones littering the side of the road, I keep pedalling just to the next pinecone (about a foot away), then to the next, and the next, and finally I make the top of the hill in my granny gear and can cruise the 200 yards/meters to my house. Or not, because there's a car behind me that wants to drive faster than ten miles an hour.
But last week, I made it up the hill in my
second to last granny gear! And without the pinecone chant. Progress! Yay me!

The hill's pretty flat, but has a nasty sharp increase in slope at the end. Like a stinking ski jump.
--SJ