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"One hour," John said, answering his own question.

John Gregg had asked me about my training goals for the year. We've been bicycling weekly for a year and a half, often joined by Bill Herbert, in an effort to stave off the aging bug. We've stayed consistent, through four seasons, with rain, snow flurries, and plenty of cold and wind. We've canceled a few times when things got nasty, but for the most part, we've stayed on schedule.

John, who in his college days was a national-caliber sprinter, is legendary for his strength, speed and stamina. He pushes us consistently hard, and each ride is an exercise in humility. After our first few rides, my legs were toast and climbing stairs afterward was an uncertain proposition. Since then, I've seen some progress. I'm not sure my speed has improved much, but my recovery is faster.

Still, as the new year approached and he asked me about my fitness goals, my limited ambition was given a jolt. As I mulled over a flippant answer like, "Oh, I'd like to be able to take out the trash once a week, maintain my ability to climb the stairs, and not find a listing for myself in the obituary column," John gave me one of those mildly disapproving, avuncular looks and responded with the retort mentioned a moment ago.

"One hour," he said. "You should target climbing to Mountain Lake in one hour."

For area cyclists, the Mountain Lake climb on Virginia 700 is a classic. It's 6.2 miles from Sinking Creek at the bottom to the crest of the road just outside the "Dirty Dancing" hotel at the top. It's the quintessential challenge. I've climbed it more times than I can count; the first time was before Richard Nixon's downfall when gasoline cost 36 cents a gallon. It has never gotten easier.

Not really embracing John's challenge but not outright rejecting it either, we decided to do a benchmark run. My most recent ride took 67 minutes, so the challenge seemed reasonable. The day we chose was chilly but not uncomfortable, with high clouds and blissfully little wind. We warmed up on the way to the base of the climb by riding from the recreation center in Newport. I reset my cyclometer and, without ceremony, was under way.

The first part of the ride does a full-frontal assault on Salt Pond Mountain, heading directly north through pastoral farms and past picturesque, venerable churches. I was already breathing heavily and struggled to find my rhythm, trying in vain to keep my speed to more than 6 mph. At the intersection of Virginia 602 where we sometimes stop to catch our breath, I clocked 18 minutes and change. John and Bill, both better climbers than I, waited patiently. But I kept going.

The second leg bends westward and does a series of elegant switchbacks, transversing the formidable mountain. There are steep stretches but also stretches of relative calm. The views were, as always, grand. As I passed the overlook of the Pembroke Cliffs, my cyclometer read 42 minutes, and I kept going. John noted cheerfully, "Only two more miles to go." Could I ride two miles in less than 20 minutes and come close to my goal?

The third part gets serious again, turning northward for the final assault through a dense, pleasant hardwood forest. My speed dropped below 5 mph. As the road steepened, I alternated between sitting on the seat and standing on the pedals, the former more efficient but the latter easier on my aching back. My quads screamed with pain but fortunately didn't cramp.

I passed the 60-minute mark almost within sight of the top and summoned all my reserves to push the final few hundred yards. John and Bill rode just ahead, urging me on and setting the pace. I crossed the crest with a time of 1:05:58, and promptly slumped over my handlebars, gasping for air.

John was his typical enthusiastic, encouraging self. "You can do an hour. All you need to do is shave one minute from every mile," he said cheerfully, as if that was somehow miraculously obtainable.

I'll be 55 this year and both John and Bill are in their 60s. As we did the descent at speeds approaching 40 mph, I doubted I'd ever break an hour. But I had successfully climbed the Mountain Lake road under my own power once more, without stopping. Again it felt like an accomplishment, just like every previous time.

Michael Abraham lives in Blacksburg and is a bsinessman and writer. You can e-mail him at bikemike@nrvuwired.com