Before I even say anything, the Tour of the Catskills one day race was a disaster for me. I felt good, I was staying well positioned in the group (riding up with the first 5 riders) and everything was going perfectly. I stood up and accelerated to chase an acceleration off the front of the group and felt a pull and a shot of pain on the outside of my right knee. Each pedal stroke for the next 5 miles was just like some sadistic devil sticking an ice pick into my knee joint.
Needless to say, with 'cross season coming up, I climbed off and accepted a DNF. Fail. Maybe I shouldn't have swapped cranks, maybe I shouldn't have swapped pedals, who knows. Next year, Catskills, next year.
Anyway….
Scouting suffering
The Sunday prior to race day was my scouting day on Platte Clove Road, AKA the Devil's Kitchen. The Devil's Kitchen was made famous in the 1990 Tour de Trump when Raul Alcala shattered the field on the mind bogglingly steep slopes of the climb on his way to his GC win. The climb itself is beastly: gaining 1,200 vertical feet in 1.4 miles, for a staggering average gradient of 16%. Make no mistake, there are a couple of sections that average in the mid 20s (26% was the highest I saw) and less than 100 total meters of sub-double digit grades, so bring your "A" game or be prepared to walk.
The devil is watching you
The first inclination that something bad is about to smack you in the face is the "seasonal access road" sign near the bottom of the climb. The road starts to tilt up ever so gently, belying the true wall that will soon come into view. As you cross the trailhead parking area and the climb begins in earnest, you're soon looking for lower gears. Not finding them, you're forced out of the saddle in a constant battle against gravity for bragging rights. Gravity is a cruel mistress though; she never gives up and always has more than enough energy left in the tank to put up a good old fashioned dog fight.
As you inexorably grind your way up the first pitches, you come to a small turnoff on the right hand side of the road, upon which an unblinking eye is carved into the rock face, eternally open to the suffering of cyclists and internal combustion engines alike. As I stopped to take a photo of this oddity (and to let a couple of rednecks in a Ford F250 pass without killing me in the process) the rest of the group ground their way up the first pitch, thankful for a "rest" on an "easy 10% grade."
Through the crux
The second pitch is the worst of the three parts of the climb: here you'll find extended 16% to 18% sections, capped by the mother of all hairpins. In this case, you stare up the road and see it wind around the cliff and disappear, signaling the end of the climb. Ahem…WRONG!
As you battle for every pedal stroke on the near 20% grades, you suddenly hit the crux of the climb, a 26% slope on the inside of the hairpin that will shatter your legs and your morale. If you manage to make it around the curve still on two wheels, you'll be faced with 50 meters of 9% grade and you'll then watch in horror as the road swings back along the ridge for the third and final pitch. 
The third pitch, compared to the previous one, is a cake walk. By this point, the pitch blackness of tunnel vision is setting in, a heaving raspy breathing fills your ears and you struggle to maintain balance as you heave the bike from side to side, stomping on the pedals for all you're worth. Eventually, you will triumph, the upper trailhead will be in view, and you will have conquered gravity and the Devil. But remember; they're both always be lurking in the Catskills, waiting around the next bend to humble you again and deal out another dose of suffering, so bring your "A" game.
Or be prepared to walk…
