Don't Know Until You Try.
I hadn't been on the bike in a while. The biggest gap between rides in eight or nine years. The numbers on Training Peaks were tumbling, and there was nothing I could do about it but lean over the trash can or toilet and hack up another lung. My voice has been shredded for four days now, and I can only yell at the kids in whispers. Riding? I was more focused on breathing.
This morning I felt like I might have turned a corner. I felt slightly less crappy. I'd gotten what passes for a good night's sleep these days. It only took an hour to flush the night's accumulation thick, dark phlegm from my head so new goop could take its place. All signs were indicating things were looking up.
I got on the trainer not expecting much. Perhaps in retrospect I set my sights too high. I had nothing. The legs were screaming for me to go, but the lungs were having no part of it. Anything strenuous in the aerobic range was out of the question. My rested legs did have an anaerobic jump or two in them, but each time I paid a little more for my indiscretions. For the most part, I stayed in my lane and did what I could do.
At the end, I was more tired that I usually am, but sweating less. I guess, all things considered, I can be happy with that. Doing anything on the bike is wonderful, so I'm going to focus on the positive for now. Maybe I'll get back on for a spin tomorrow if I feel OK. I certainly won't be outside, like all of my grinning bastard-friends are in their FaceSpace posts. I have to be patient and give myself a chance to heal and rebuild. A rasping ride dodging ice patches and sand piles sounds like heaven righ now, but I'll get my chance soon enough. Maybe I'll wait for the street sweepers and sun to take care of the obstacles first. Then again, I rarely have that much patience. But, for now, I'll wait. I don't have a choice.
Tom Boonen did his last Roubaix Sunday. Greg van Avermaet won the race, the fastest edition in history. Tom didn't get his fairy tale fifth cobblestone and the record. It just proves that even the immortals don't always get their way.
This morning I felt like I might have turned a corner. I felt slightly less crappy. I'd gotten what passes for a good night's sleep these days. It only took an hour to flush the night's accumulation thick, dark phlegm from my head so new goop could take its place. All signs were indicating things were looking up.
I got on the trainer not expecting much. Perhaps in retrospect I set my sights too high. I had nothing. The legs were screaming for me to go, but the lungs were having no part of it. Anything strenuous in the aerobic range was out of the question. My rested legs did have an anaerobic jump or two in them, but each time I paid a little more for my indiscretions. For the most part, I stayed in my lane and did what I could do.
At the end, I was more tired that I usually am, but sweating less. I guess, all things considered, I can be happy with that. Doing anything on the bike is wonderful, so I'm going to focus on the positive for now. Maybe I'll get back on for a spin tomorrow if I feel OK. I certainly won't be outside, like all of my grinning bastard-friends are in their FaceSpace posts. I have to be patient and give myself a chance to heal and rebuild. A rasping ride dodging ice patches and sand piles sounds like heaven righ now, but I'll get my chance soon enough. Maybe I'll wait for the street sweepers and sun to take care of the obstacles first. Then again, I rarely have that much patience. But, for now, I'll wait. I don't have a choice.
Tom Boonen did his last Roubaix Sunday. Greg van Avermaet won the race, the fastest edition in history. Tom didn't get his fairy tale fifth cobblestone and the record. It just proves that even the immortals don't always get their way.
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