The wind from the north brought cooler temperatures. Locals were bundled up like the next ice age was here. I saw a couple cyclists wearing balaclavas and insulated tights. They wouldn't allow daycare kids to play outside. It was 60F.
I, on the other hand, was right in my comfort zone, so I decided to take a long ride. I fought the headwind as I rode north, but never really broke a sweat. The roadkill armadillos smelled somehow sweeter. Well, maybe they just didn't reek so much. I put a bunch of miles under my wheels, so many that my legs fell off. That was the plan, and I executed it.
The next day I did it again, then pushed it a little further. Again, the legs came off, this time a little earlier. I flailed my way home.
Every day I get a little bit stronger. Every day I get a little bit weaker. 
If that makes any sense. Does to me.
After my season was cut short by injury, I went into a decline. I couldn't ride like I wanted to, and there was no reason to ride like that anyway. I had to change gears and find new goals.
Looking at the numbers, I'm peaking right now. Peaking for what? The trainer? Hours upon hours of grinding away in a cold garage? Inevitable illnesses brought home by the children? A slow decline into the spring, when I'll have to rebuild everything to salvage yet another race season?
I hope not.
When I'm finally sprung from the Gulf Coast in mid-November, I plan on backing way, way off. It's not like I'm going to be doing any five hour trainer sessions. The volume will go down. The intensity will inevitably come back up. Maybe I can build on what I've done down here. Maybe I can convert all of those miles into something, even as I back away from the edge I find myself on.
In the meantime, at least I'm not sweating so much.


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