Before I get to that, however, allow me to explain my extended absence. I had been battling a serious achilles injury for about two months. And while the blogger gods (my sister and Megan A.), suggested I document my journey through a serious injury, I couldn't really bring myself to do it. I was too bummed out.
Allow me to summarize: Hurt my achilles playing dodgeball (of all things), adhered to my injury philosophy for two months (if it's hurt, REST IT!), and emerged on the other side, ready to begin training for the Chicago marathon in October. So, I took a two month hiatus from running, and almost beat up every person I know because I was so crabby. On a brighter note, however, I did rediscover my love for cycling.
Love might be too strong a word.
This past weekend, when my brother asked me to go along on a 30-mile ride with him, I asked myself, "How hard can it be?" What my vacation-idled brain failed to take into consideration, was that my brother, who is already a superior cyclist, had just finished working 21, 13+ hour days in a row. *After a night of moderate imbibery, 8:00 AM arrived far too quickly. I happily suited up - shorts, jersey, gloves, helmet, glasses - oblivious to the pain that lurked just beyond the driveway. I filled my bottles, packed a Gu, and stepped out into the morning sun. My brother, already bristling, was clipped in and ready to ride. Another warning sign that my brain completely overlooked.
"North by Northwest wind today, 8-12 MPH. Wanna ride north first?"
"Sound great!" I chirped. And off we rode.
The ride started easily enough. We wound our way through town, dodging angry motorists and manhole covers, until we reached our uninterrupted ribbon of open road. Big brother took the first pull on the front, and within about thirty seconds, I glanced down, with furtive brow, at my speedometer. 22.4, 22.8, 23.2, 23.6, 24.0...
"Hey!" I shouted. "No warm up?"
"Already did that," Scott replied, with an edge to his voice that rang with a touch of masochism.
"Right." I spun up to about 110 RPMs, and settled in.
By "settled in" the reader may get the impression that I was at peace, body and mind, with this pace. After all, I was sitting comfortably in my brother's slip-stream. How hard could it be? Allow me to elaborate.
After the first half mile, my heart rate was pushing the high side of 170, my quads, hamstrings, calves, hip flexors, and any other muscle or tendon associated with propelling a bike were screaming their protests. My hands began to shake. My breathing quickened, and it felt like my eyes might pop clean out of my skull at any moment.
Not letting my body get in the way of my pride, I stoically, stupidly, (bravely??) downshifted, and took a turn at the front. As I came around, I felt the force of the "gentle" 8-12 MPH wind. It felt more like 15-20 MPH at this speed. Fulfilling my duties as team captain, however, I took a turn at the front.
I dropped the pace to a casual 22 MPH, and noticed something odd. My heart rate actually went down. The screaming protestations from my legs quieted to a mere whimper. I actually felt better. My body must be warming up, I thought to myself. And pressed on, encouraged by this fallacy.
The miles ticked past, faster than I was accustomed to. We alternated turns at the front, taking about a half mile at a time, pushing the wind, allowing the other to "rest" in the slipstream.
We proceeded in this manner, Scott pushing 24-25 MPH when he lead, and me, a modest 21-22. Then, something finally dawned on me, something which my aching legs and lungs had been trying to tell me all along. I was actually working HARDER while sitting in my brother's slip-stream, traveling 25 MPH than I was while pushing into a 10 MPH headwind, at the front!
I decided to tuck this golden kernel of knowledge away until after we turned back and were able to use the north wind to our advantage.
Mercifully, the turning point arrived, and we spun down a bit, to allow our (mostly MY) legs to rest a bit and recover. While rolling through a state park, I mentioned the paradox to my riding partner.
"So... you wanna know why I was so eager to take my turn at the front?" I asked.
"Figured you were finally tired of riding my coattails for the last ten years."
"Right. Good one," I replied.
"Actually, it's the only way I could get a break!" I shouted. "You were putting a thorough beat-down on me with that ridiculous pace you were pushing, so taking the lead and dialing the pace back a few MPH was the only way I could actually get a rest, ya jack@ss!"
Big brother only replied with a small chuckle, a mischievous grin, and a, "Well, ya ready?"
The remainder of the ride, with the wind at our backs, passed rather quickly. We arrived back in the driveway where I was struck by three thoughts:
1. I remembered just how much cycling, my old friend, means to me. Despite the years of neglect, it was still there for me when I needed it. For two months, it offered an outlet for my frustrations when my body was simply unable to run due to injury. Without it, I surely would have gone crazy.
2. No matter the pain that our body endures, there is always room for just a little more. Let your mind tell your body what to do, and nine times out of ten, your body will surprise you and respond.
and
3. My brother (my other old friend) is intent on making sure I don't see my 32nd birthday.
* Blogger's Note: If you're reading this blog, chances are, you know my brother, and what kind of pent-up aggression he was harboring after such a hellacious three weeks on the job. Somehow, I forgot this.
