You're heading up Taylor, and by up we of course mean up, at a 20-something-degree angle that the designers of your bike or car or shins didn't anticipate, an angle that suggests that point at the peak of a swinging child's arc when the swing doesn't pendulum back but instead just falls for a breath before being caught again by the ropes. So, up you haul, the city and the bay getting smaller beneath you, each intersection a plateau whose crest you must first nose over before dealing with a stop sign, your fuel level — literal, if you're driving, figurative if you aren't — going up and down as the incline sloshes gas around the tank, and then, at last, you're there, at the top, at Vallejo, where for some reason, hung on a light post, is a singularly unhelpful yellow diamond street sign announcing "HILL."