That's All There Is.

When I crossed the Moose Run finish line last night, I stopped my Garmin. I knew long before I reached that point that this was going to be historically disappointing. I wasn't angry. I sure wasn't excited. I was... resigned.
I knew within a mile of the start that I couldn't maintain any sort of power. I was hoping that the excitement of the race would inspire something within me to dig deep, but looking at my heart rate, I had nothing left to give. I guess I'm happy and sad at the same time about that.
Over one minute slower on a ten-mile time trial than I was a year ago. One minute. That's an eternity. At a certain point, just gaining a handful of seconds in a TT is a cause for celebration. People spend thousands of dollars to buy those seconds. I've spent a lot of money chasing them. It took me years to get where I was last year, and twelve months later I'm one minute slower. It takes a bit of adjusting to.
The Spring Stage Race is going to be a slaughter. There's no way I can hang, much less compete. There's no way I can turn this around in a week and a half of focused training (not that I ever do that sort of stuff). I may get better, but it won't be enough. It's unpleasant to contemplate, but I already paid my entry fee. I'll line up, because that's what I love to do, but the start line is the last place I'll be with the pack.
It's a little demoralizing, to have months of work wiped away by illness. All of the effort to push the chronic training load progressively higher. Each hard exercise inching that number up. Then helplessly watching it plummet. Last night's result just confirmed what the numbers were telling me.
Resignation. That's where I am.
Now I guess I better try to do something about it.


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