M R not mountains. M R hills.

Actually, that sensation is injector shutdown -- in any closed throttle, high vacuum deceleration of more than a couple of seconds the injectors are shut completely off. Making the engine easier to turn hampers transmission braking, but brakes are cheaper to replace and easier to access than clutches anyway.

My favored technique is to allow the speed to climb to just shy of getting a ticket speed, brake moderately to below the limit, then let it climb again, lather/rinse/repeat. It peels off less friction material than riding the brakes. It annoys those who seem to believe that the ability to reach a mountain road automatically makes them race car drivers, but I want them to pass anyway. When they're in front my brakes can keep me out of their wrecks -- when they're behind, my brakes would get me into their wrecks.

 

I gotcha! The only problem is the curves. It is like our settlers said "Lets shape this road like a sidewinder snake." I can't take these curves past 50MPH. The lanes are too narrow and people always get too close to me (Mountain on the right, divider barrier on the left). I HATE the people that are scared of the divider when in the left lane then creep their right tire into my lane.

There are numerous deaths and accidents every year on that road. Deaths are motorcyclists though. Every winter I see at least two cars IN THE MOUNTAIN as I drive to work. "Hey I just got a Camaro...that means I can speed down a hill in the snow."

 

That's just mountain living. Flatlanders love to flock to the mountains to die stupidly. Here we get the instant race car drivers just like every other hill on the continent, but also the "extreme" snowmobilers who manage to find the bottom sides of the avalanches, hunters who strike out alone from camp only to learn that it's hard to scream for help in the middle of a heart attack, and intrepid wanderers who disappear and are never heard from again. Every now and then someone will find bleached bones, but if the meat puppet it used to live inside was never DNA tested the scattered and gnawed bones are impossible to match to a birth certificate.

Ya know, though, there are far worse places from which to jump off. I intend to leave my corpse way the hell off and gone in the Rockies, too.