Going downhill is my favorite thing to do on a bike. But even if they gave you a lift up the hill—like they do for mountain bikers at ski resorts—I wouldn't accept the ride. First of all, there's the work ethic thing. Perhaps it’s the Calvinist in me. Or my sense of guilt, which is much more developed than my sense of honor. Then there's my sense of fatness, which is also highly developed: even when I'm not actually fat, I still have the sense of being fat.

Also, to be honest, I dig climbing hills. I dig it a lot more when I'm fit of course, but I do like climbing. Both while running and riding. I verbally bemoan the hills, and I like them better at the beginning of my day than at the end, but I can't imagine a flat, featureless landscape over which I would be expected to either run or ride. I'm sure I'd like climbing during the swim, too, if they offered it.

So, since I'm going to be climbing—and it is a competitive thing with me, even if I'm just comparing myself to my own past efforts—I might as well climb the hills properly. I'm sort of a big guy— 6'2", and 165 pounds when I'm fit—so God didn't give me a climber's body. But I have made the best of it, and I seem to go from really bad on the hills to quite good all in one fell swoop. It happens in about a week. I almost immediately go from getting dropped from the pack to pulling away from it. Strangest darned thing.

You cannot fault me on my technique or strategy. This is because I make up for in treachery what I lack in talent. If there is an advantage to be gotten I will take it. If there is a way to go faster on fewer watts I'll find it. And do not underestimate my facility for taking advantage. If I can get any legal edge from the hard work a rider does who's alongside me, I will.

Apart from the obvious training and talent elements that pertain to good climbing, which are—or will be—discussed in some detail elsewhere on Slowtwitch, you can boil hill climbing on the bike down to issues of momentum, leverage, timing, cadence, confidence and, sometimes, the ability to bluff your opponent (when you have one to bluff).

I should also state here that what follows is simply a description of how you most effectively get up a hill. It omits the strategic questions that attend racing. If what you read hear helps you to be more competitive on ascents, that does not mean you necessarily ought to try to "compete" with whomever is in your proximity during an ascent while in a race. If your average power during an event's bike leg is 225 watts and it's going to take 450 watts to retain contact with a competitor, you have to decide whether that's in your strategic interest. What follows is a description of the tactical elements of climbing—let the strategic implications be damned.

The first and most important question when climbing a hill competitively—it is rhetorical but I'll ask it anyway for effect—is this: Which part of the hill do you want to win? In other words, do you want to be first to the halfway point, or first to the top? I ask this because the most common mistake triathletes make is their zeal to charge up the hill from the bottom. This is the case whether the hill is five miles or 500 meters long.

My rule of thumb on any hill under a mile is to always be accelerating until I get to the top. The naivete of other triathletes always works to my advantage because they almost always do not follow this rule. Therefore, I will suffer on the lower part of the hill but I do so willingly, letting my training or racing partners do the work on the first half of the climb. I'm just hanging on for dear life, and usually in a smaller gear than I'm comfortable turning. But most hills gradually get steeper through the first half or two-thirds, and the higher cadence I'm turning will gradually "come back" to a more comfortable one—say, 90 or 95rpm.

By the time I'm halfway to the top of a grade I start to wake up. My contemporaries beside and in front of me are "losing" their cadence, speed and momentum. I'm just starting to think about mine. And leverage over your gear is always a premium while climbing. I never let my cadence bog. I always downshift five beats per minute earlier than I really need to so I'm never in danger of being "behind" the gear I'm in.

Therefore, when I'm starting to accelerate—perhaps a hundred meters from the top, perhaps less if the hill is steeper—I haven’t been lugging a big gear up the hill. I've always been spinning at a nice, economical cadence.

I might lose three or four seconds in the first half of a hill. But I can lose 40 seconds in the second half of the hill if my momentum—or lack thereof—is causing me to tend in the wrong direction while others are just starting their drive for the top. It always amazes me how I can ride with the same group of triathletes week after week, for years—smart guys, college-educated, with good, white-collar jobs—and they'll never catch on that I'm no stronger than they are. I just ride smarter.

But you're triathletes, right? So what about aero position climbing? You are going to have a hard time with this, but I'm going to tell you anyway. A bike made for the aero position should be ridden in the aero position virtually all the time. The two exceptions are when you're descending, in which case your hands are on the base-bar next to your brake levers, and when you're out of the saddle (which we'll get to). When you're climbing seated, you should stay in the aero position. This is not a "mash" position; the aero position is quite dependent on keeping your cadence up. You'll have a hard time believing—when you're lying down, climbing along with your arms in the cups, roadies to the left and right of you sitting "up" and "back"—that you're as efficient as they are. But if you keep your cadence high, in the nineties or perhaps even higher, you'll motor right along.

Yes, there are times when you'll want to get out of the saddle, and this would be the case whether you’re riding a road or a tri-bike. The capacity for climbing long distances out of the saddle is, I think, a measure of whether you're in top shape or not. For me, this ability comes late in my march toward peak fitness. Prior to that I'm fairly glued to the saddle. But when I'm finally reaching top shape I can alternate in and out of the saddle and spend significant amounts of time out of the saddle, quite comfortably.

Climbing out of the saddle is more energy consuming but allows you to generate torque. If you need to accelerate, or retain speed during a point where the road temporarily pitches up, this is when riding out of the saddle can pay dividends. It is harder. What makes it easier, though, is when you're not bent over and you have your body vertically positioned over your bottom bracket.

America's archetypal ascender was Andy Hampsten -- winner of the Giro d'Italia in the 1988, twice winner of the Tour of Switzerland -- and who looked like he was on a stair-climber when he was out of the saddle. Triathletes must choose a pursuit bar placement allowing the hand position that mimics the hoods found on their road race bikes. That said, I'll stand more on my road bike than on my tri bike. The best place to be while on a tri-bike is in the saddle, in the aero position, spinning a high cadence.

The best climbers I know are fearless and confident. We'll get toward the top of a hill and start to roll. Out of the saddle we'll go. Clunk, into a bigger gear. Clunk again. About this time I KNOW they can't keep this going to the top. And they know I know. But they still dare me to go with them.

In the confines of the above set of guidelines, be fearless. Try things. Don't worry about bonking or dying. That's how you get stronger. Climb the biggest hill you can get to. If you have no big hills, climb the little ones for time. Faster and faster. One thing is always certain. The best climber is the best cyclist. If you can climb well, the rest will fall into place.