Falling in among Sadists and Masochists

It seems as though I attract that personality type.  Or, at least, it seems that way when I think about the guys I cycle with.  Dave plans our overnight tours.  His latest one is a three-day jaunt up into La Mancha and is reputed to be a very scenic, colorful ride through wine country (and now the kicker) including some "steep" and later "long, steady" climbs.  One of the highlights is going to be a cruise (my misnomer) through "one of  the jewels of La Mancha set in a deep river gorge."  Sounds great until you think it through.  "Gorge" is a low spot-usually cut by water, low is only reached from high, and can only be escaped by going lower (not a good idea) or higher-meaning climbing.  
Then there's Peter who lives for climbing and drools in a Pavlovian cascade when he hears Rebate, Hondon Valley or Guadalest.  Whenever he's not thrashing about in his sailboat, he's wagging his rear wheel at us mere mortals waaaay downhill.
We won't elaborate on Gary other than to mention that he breaks chains going uphill using the big ring.  Why he even bothers to weigh himself down with the small ring(s), I don't know.

And the latest is Richard, who on a supposedly tranquil trail cruise along the Segura River, announces that we are going up "that street".  An intown Orihuela lane that turns into a brutal climb up to the monastery.  I say brutal, because I was riding my ancient, steel,10-speed Colnago  and not the new carbon, 20-speed  Cannondale.  I watched him disappear uphill on his triple-ringed mountain bike as I dismounted at the halfway point and started pushing.  I joined him in a celebratory beer at the top, once I quit gasping for air. No complaints from the resident clergy as, after all, "It would just be rude, not to have a beer at the top."