The altitude at Vuelta al Ecuador would be absolutely killer: 5 stages in a row that started or finished (or started AND finished) at over 9,000 ft, not to mention comically astronomical elevation gain. Stage 3: 12,836 ft, stage 4: 11,030, stage 6: 11,223. All 8 stages together would total over 60,000 ft, with 50,000 of that crammed into stages 3-7. And the leanest and meanest Latin American continental pros would be there, slavering over the altimetry stats. I let it all hang out on the 134-mile pan-flat first stage, finishing 2nd out of a 85-mile breakaway and winning the “combativity” award, which is basically a consolation prize for the least abashed wiener swinger. Toward the end of stage 2, I futilely jumped the Team Medellín train in an attempt at a hail mary solo attack. Then, inside of 5 miles to go and mostly out of pettiness, I yanked the entire peloton across a 1-minute gap up to the dangling breakaway, where race leader Nacho Prado, who had soundly out sprinted me the day before, was in danger of staying away. That last-ditch effort to leave a mark on the race dug me into an ominous hole of glycogen debt the day before the climbing orgy began. This unacclimated flatlander was going to have to pull a guinea pig out of a hat to make it through the mountains. Surprisingly, I felt okay about my chances after finishing well within time cut and helping the climbers with positioning and feeding during Stage 3’s hors catégorie ascent from sea level to 9k. But the turbulent 4-hour bus ride through the oxygen-poor air of the Andes made for mediocre recovery, and the next morning’s weather was a chilly, energy-sapping puzzle, slideshowing through drizzle and sunshine and pouring rain and back again before drying out completely by the end of the agonizingly slow, 40-minute-long neutral rollout...