My legs are stiff, the muscles throbbing after the week of volume. The rapid transition from short rides to longer rides taxed muscle groups that had long ago developed an entitlement mentality. They weren't happy about this, and immediately activated their Google boxes to find the closest Bernie Sanders rally (#werenotgoingtostandforthisabuse).
My spine is creaky after hours of folding it over my gut in a rough approximation of an aerodynamic position.
The gut, kicked into submission by my knees, vents it's displeasure late at night, keeping my wife awake with sounds every elementary school boy (and Donald Trump) would find hilarious (#fatcelllivesmatter).
It's a rest day, whether I want to or not. My body really, really wants to. My head? It's still looking out the window and trying to rally the troops for another run up Potter Valley. It's a losing battle, but one I'm glad it's still willing to fight.
I think my training today will be stretching out on the couch followed by a vigorous nap.
When the ache fades a bit and my Training Peaks charts indicate I have a pulse again, I'll start riding. Shorter rides with a lot of intensity. Pukervals. Stuff to help with recovery from exertion, which as I age becomes increasingly difficult. Not too much to prevent the numbers from trending in a positive manner in time for Fairbanks.
Then I'll beat myself down again.


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