When we first moved to Colorado (I was married, then), we bought a house in the hills between Parker and Elizabeth. Our house sat about 1200 feet higher than Parker, just about on the highest point between there and Elizabeth.
So, any time I took a ride down to either town, I ended up climbing in order to get home. When I was first riding in Colorado, before I fully acclimated to the elevation and got in shape, climbing back to the house was a challenge.
One day, I rode my Cannondale from the house, down Bayou Gulch Road, to Parker Road. I then turned north, and rode to the south side of Parker. Then, to head back to the house, I decided to climb up Hilltop Road.
Hilltop, then, was a narrow, twisty, two-lane which climbed pretty much continuously for about six miles, although it has since been widened and straightened, in places. At that point, the road turns south and changes name.
At that point in the road, there is a guard rail to the right, and a steep bank leading down from the road to a home-site. By the time I reached that curve, I was beat. My heartbeat was up around 200 beats per minute, and my speed was down to about 3 miles per hour.
As I approached the turn, which also signaled the beginning of a nice downhill section of road, I saw something from the corner of my eye. I looked over to the right just as a deer topped the rise from the home-site, leaped over the guardrail, and landed on the pavement just in front of me.
Then, at the dizzying speed of 3 mph, I ran into the side of the deer. I came to an abrupt stop, the deer gave me the classic "deer in the headlights" look (only without the headlights) then turned and bolted back down the slope, to wherever he had come from.
I continued on my way, thinking to myself that this kind of thing was precisely what I had moved to Colorado for.