Because if this five star Northwest day finishes like it began (our traditional 0530 spin session) I will be Q'ed like so many slabs of sizzling sirloin by noon. Plus we have another session at 1800.
Here is the latest from RCVman labs:
All data indices another rung has been reached on the recovery ladder. Yesterday's four hour ride on Trixie (a fixed gear vixen if ever there was) and following thirty minute run, left me in a state I haven't witnessed for ten years or so. Way, way back in the days when Ironman training was the norm and utter physical exhaustion a daily occurrence.
In response I have upped my protein intake, doubling the dosage to over 80 grams, made hydration a hourly ritual and have returned to the guilty pleasures of the afternoon nap. The only cardio-pulmonary side effect, besides the self-induced trauma, has been a minor sporadic muscle spasm directly under my sternum.
I take all this as good news. Meaning I take all this as great news. Meaning that I might actually be ready to start SERIOUS training.
I am tired, fatigued and a touch sore in the lower back from yesterday's effort, but I am damn pleased with it. Like we discussed this morning; Soreness is earned, congratulations.
There were many highlights on my long sunny ride yesterday. I took a route that I have previously ignored, passing a thousand times. And found a monster climb. Long climbs are hell on a fixie, almost as evil as the forthcoming devilish descents. I stopped at a lake that bears the name of the road, and considered a triathlon. I miss the days of going as hard as I could, as long as I could. A large part of my current, post-pacer, training is in building confidence back to pre-procedure levels.
We are getting there. Albeit slowly, but, inching towards improvement nonetheless.
One other highlight. The main goal of riding in a fixed gear is the attention necessary to stay uptight. There is no coasting. It is a Zen thing. You cannot stop turning the pedals without slowing or stopping. If you have a "shimano moment" and try to coast, you are toast. As in ass over tea kettles. So you focus and flow.
I was grinding up a well known post-bridge grade avoiding sharp pebbles, jettisoned auto parts and caterpillars, when I spotted it. I rode past, thinking at six mph, that the road-kill junk sure looked like a miniature guitar. Shaking my head at my own oddness, I turned a U on the major thoroughfare, and circled almost dead on the spot where it was somehow crooning my name (in C major).
I would really like to know the story of how this guitar bottle opener from Nashville, Tennessee got all the way to Jefferson County, Washington. I think even Tom Robbins would like that story.
Tonight after our 2x20 set I plan on finding whether or not it still works.
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