It just never sounds good to me to spin endlessly. I am a runner. I have an all-consuming affinity for all things running. I love the culture. I love the camaraderie. I love the simplicity. I love the limited gear that is required to get out the door. I love the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. Oh, and I love the wild and varied shoe options available.
Unfortunately, when training for an Iron distance, the bike plays an integral role. The endless miles required in the saddle have forced my first love into the role of second class citizen. My legs just never feel fresh for a run these days. Worse than perpetual tired gams, however, is the pre-ride unhappy and unsettled stomach. The night before any long bike, I find myself riddled with anxiety.
Last night was of no exception before this morning's 100 miler. The prolific thoughts that pester my preoccupied mind are not limited to, "What if I can't finish the distance? What if I get dropped? What if I get hit by a car? What if I get lost? What if I crash? What if I get a flat? What if I melt in the summer heat?"
To me, any of these are very real possibilities given the conditions. It's why we do what we do. It's the challenge, the unknown. It's why I swim/bike/run with the rough crowd I do. These people make the 140.6 distance look routine. It's their religion. Like most good churchgoers, most of my friends find themselves faithfully competing in an ultra distance just about every weekend. It's a challenge that has become a way of life, almost as customary as brushing one's teeth.
I will give credit where credit is due, however. This morning's ride was nothing short of joyful. Most thankfully, none of my worries came to fruition. We started early to try to outride some of the unforgiving sunlight, most of the drivers were nearly courteous, the company I kept was kind enough to pull much of the road out front, and amazingly, I didn't evaporate on the blistering asphalt. Even when forced to stop at red lights and taking in the air was like breathing cotton across taxed lungs, I found myself relishing the slow drip of perspiration down my brow and delighting in the road's sandy grit pasted to my shins. I felt as though I had earned it.
Perhaps the most magical stretch of road was the one that took us under the heavy canopy of massive banyan trees. Storybook worthy, the ancient friends spread their limbs for us, offering weary travelers their hospitable shade. So heavy were their branches, it was nearly dark as night in that gracious tunnel; I tried to absorb every moment of respite from the relentless sun, high in the sky now some sixty plus miles into the ride. Called "Bent Banyan Way", the street was unanimously renamed today, "The Enchanted Forest" because for those of us on carbon fiber, it truly was intoxicating.
I'm thinking we may have been delirious from the heat.
One thought remains worth mentioning. Practice may never make me completely proficient on the bike, but it does make me practically comfortable. I am becoming increasingly adept in my drops and learning aero position. I have a handle on my gears now and understand the basic mechanics of my tri bike. Heck, I can even drink and drive now, thanks to Eddie changing out my water cage to accommodate the smallish frame. So happy was I to be finishing the final roll home, I found myself bouncing in the petals and pushing gears for the last miles.
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