I’m on a gravel cycling tour in Girona, Spain, and our guide Dave Smith is preparing us for the day’s route. All I want to know is, will there be cake and will there be hills?

Which got me to thinking: which comes first, the cake or the hill? Would you want one without the other? What’s the point of riding if there’s no cake? In fact, what’s the point of life itself? Let’s be honest — the reward for a big climb isn’t just the descent, it’s the dessert. I want to have my cake and eat it too.

I love cycling and, living in a mountain town like Park City, climbing hills comes with the territory. But having been lapped on my mountain bike by an older lady with a purse, it’s not my forte.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to embrace the suck. I once did a cycling tour in the Pyrenees with 10 French strangers who barely spoke English. One of them hung in the back with me while we were climbing a classic Tour de France mountain stage, periodically pushing my butt up certain 20% grades. Occasionally, he’d shout something to me in French which I’m sure translated to “By all means, move at a glacial pace.”

Over the years, I’ve changed my gear ratios, taken spin classes, stood up in my pedals, focused on my breath. I’ve even tried eating less cake. Try as I might to overcome my Achilles hill, when I see the road rising up to meet me and the wind is definitely not at my back, something dies inside me.

In order to cope with the loss, I’ve devised the following model, as taught to me by every hill I’ve ever climbed.

Stage 1

That’s definitely not a hill. Wait, is that the one the guide warned us about? Nahhh, that’s not it. Wait, you call this a hill? I feel great!

You look down for a moment to take a sip of Gatorade as you feel your bike effortlessly roll across a seemingly flat surface. You look up and that’s when you see the gnarly swath of cracked asphalt rising sharply and turning a corner in front of you.

Stage 2

You’ve gotta be kidding me. This isn’t one climb, this is more like three hills in one. This is freaking ridiculous. WTH am I doing here?

You begin to regret all the life decisions that led you to this point. Didn’t the guide promise this would be a micro hill? “You’re almost there,” one of the other cyclists brightly calls out as she leaves you in the dust. “You got this!” says a random man with a cane walking along the side of the road.

Stage 3

Dear lord, just get me to the top of this hill with my lungs and ego intact. I promise, if you let me stop pedaling right this minute and not tip over in my cleats, I will renounce all of my earthly possessions.

You remember reading somewhere that pro cyclists have a lung capacity of about eight liters. That’s like 50 cups of beer. You picture two giant Mylar smiley face balloons inflated with a helium tank. You imagine your own meager efforts to breathe life into two puny birthday balloons while desperately whispering Pleasedontpoppleasedontpoppleasedontpop.

Stage 4

One by one, a group of teenagers on mountain bikes hammers past you. A tiny white butterfly hovers in front of your face before flitting off. Your Garmin beeps to let you know that it’s on automatic shut-down — you’re moving so slowly, it thinks you’ve stopped. It’s OK, you call out as if anyone can hear you. We’re all going to die someday… some of us sooner than others. I’ve had a good life.

Stage 5

Just then, you look up and see your friends. They wait patiently as, gasping for air, you pretend to be fascinated by a withered wildflower on the side of the road. And that’s when the rush of endorphins hits.

You’ve never felt more alive. More free. Someone hands you a bite of a sweaty CLIF Bar. You throw your leg over the saddle and clip back into the pedals.

“There’s a tailwind and it’s all downhill from here,” the guide says. You know he’s lying but it doesn’t matter. It’s just five miles to cake and beer.