In a word, hills.

That is what has changed in my riding since moving to the west coast. No longer do I have the flatlands of the midwest to contend with, where being challenged meant time trial efforts, lengthy intervals, using the wind to simulate hills or playing dodge the rollerblader or runner.

Here, the terrain provides the stimuli.

So far, so good. I wake up in the mornings and am jazzed to just ride, let alone train around here. There is a common portion of the route but at the end of a few miles, there are options. Climb a bit and across the big red bridge into Marin. And from there, more options. Up into the headlands, or down into Sausalito, on to Fairfax or Tiburon.

If you decide to forego the bridge, you can climb into the hills in the Presidio and up and up and up. Down a bit, and into Sea Cliff where the mansions and money live. The Mexican gardeners lined up on both sides with their trucks about to start their day. I nod as I grunt up the climb and to the top.

Like the slowness of creation and quickness of destruction, the lengthy climb is rewarded by a fast descent and the smell of the ocean is ripe and welcome. It reveals itself around the curve and invigorates you briefly before you head into the park surrounded by greenery.

There are moments where enjoying the sights actually warrant usage.

After riding solo for most of the ride, you are joined by others. Commuters, messengers and riders like you, riding hard, riding tempo.