Except that today I have another, long forgotten tool at my disposal. I look at my heart rate monitor and immediately see that I am fluctuating between 190 and 120.
I have spun my heart back into A-Fib.
FUCK I shout to myself. Nobody hears because they are all in their own spheres, trying to accomplish the same thing. Measure, manage, eek as much power as possible out of the motor without blowing up. That is the beauty of the indoor time trial and its outdoor cousin the 'test of truth'.
It truly is the sole reason that we train with so much passion. For this moment. The time trial. There is nothing else that compares.
And I must now deal with the decision. Go or no go? Quit or finish? Back off or speed up? After all, the faster I go the sooner I finish.
The metrics are screwed-up as well. There is no way I am in first place, leading the monster cyclists who showed up today to race. NO WAY.
So I negotiate with the general controller. OK, (he says) soft pedal and back off, let Garry catch you (me) in the final mile and finish. Nobody will know the struggle. Nobody would care anyway. We all have our crosses to bear. Get it done, TCB, relax, get some protein, drink lots of water and take a nap. Live to fight another day. He finishes with a cheerful, 'That is an order.' Yessssir.
Stress and intensity play interestingly well together as allies in the battle over control of my heart. The Battle of the Beat.
Maybe I should go to Florida for a couple of days for some R&R.
Or just head down to the Navy Barbershop and get a haircut.
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