No, You Can't. Yes, You Can. You Really Shouldn't Have.

I'm going to do something has never been done in the history of the written word.

I'm going to say I don't understand women.

Wednesday night my wife said I couldn't do the crit on Thursday. After the Spring Stage Race, things had started to pile up around the house, and I needed to knock out some chores. Fair enough, I understand.

After work, I jumped on the bike and did hill repeats up Super Potter for a little over an hour. Suitably tired and sweaty, I picked up the toddler from daycare and headed home. When I walked in the door, the wife told me I could race the crit if I wanted to. I stood there confused for an eternity, then did the dishes and a load of laundry while I pondered my options. Never hurts to earn some good will for the future.

My legs were pretty much cooked, as I haven't been taking it easy this week. I took a day off after the Spring Stage Race, then started doing progressively longer rides to build up the diesel. All of the numbers on Training Peaks indicated I'm just north of dead, which is my goal for the week. Burn everything down with progressively longer and longer rides until something breaks, then recover and hammer some intensity in preparation for Fairbanks.

Since I never changed out of my kit, I pinned on a number and drove out to the crit. The plan was to see if I could hang for 30 minutes of the 45 minute race, then drop out. To be honest, the way my legs felt I wasn't sure I'd last 15. Still, it would be "fun" to try.

I rode like the race was going to last 30 minutes, chasing down breaks and generally playing around. Since I couldn't make enough races to be in the points for the series, crits are all about playing bikes for me. I certainly don't take it seriously. A weekly dose of intensity and pack training is all I'm looking for. I took a dig at the prime sprint, my sore legs netting second. When the clock hit 30, I sat up and pulled off. The pack came around again and I got a lot of quizzical looks. Feeling goofy, I jumped back on the course with the intent of dragging Markus Doerry's son around, who had been dropped and lapped. He was gamely trying to hang with the pack, but flailing with every slight acceleration. I tried to provide him with a draft, but he was even more cooked than I was, so I followed the group around for the rest of the race. When the finish came, I motioned to another rider to sit up and we coasted across the line after all of the aggression was finished. No need to get in the way when you're out of the game.

To be honest, I should have stayed in. I didn't have the legs to go for the win, but I probably would have been able to hang. Oh well, it was fun to pla- especially when I wasn't expecting to be out there at all.

When I got home, the wife was grumpy. Because of my extreme empathic nature, I could sense it was something I did. Then again, it's always something I did, so you don't have to be hyper tuned-in to people's emotions like I am to work that one out. Apparently when she told me to go to the crit, she really meant don't go to the crit and instead binge-watch Grey's Anatomy or some other chick show on Netflix with me. I don't know how I missed the signs.

I'll take the hit. Getting beat up by a bunch of lycra-clad hooligans is much preferred to watching Nashville or whatever insufferable pablum my wife is hooked on now.

When you're already deep in a hole, sometimes you just have to keep digging.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Sprint Intervals.

Nostalgia.

Uniform Suckiness.