It’s the ride you’ll do the most. The hardest ride you’ll ever do, too. You’ll do it so often that it should be easy, but it never is. Its frequency is such that it really should morph into all the other rides of its ilk, therefore negating the actual nexus of this necessary, evil ride. But it never does, it’s always stuck out there on its own, no matter what the duration between it and the next one is, could be months, could be only a week, but it’ll never leave, like that mate who stays for a couple of nights yet really should be paying rent after the first month, or at least offering a 20 for some food. This is the modus operandi of the First Ride Back.
As you get older, the FRB becomes more regular, unlike yourself. Jesus, my latest FRB really shouldn’t have qualified for its status at all, but such is the fickle nature of fitness at an ‘advanced’ age that just six days off the bike is enough to send one into panic, that the hard earned fitness is somehow leaving the body at a rate many times faster than it was acquired. Even with a pretty solid few months of riding under the belt, the effects of six days off, caused by an errant finger meeting a spinning disc rotor, sounded a death knell to me. A couple of opportunities came and went, adding to the mental mire as well as the (mainly perceived) physical one. Jumping back into the Tuesday night jaunt brought the daunt. Begging for hostilities to secede always falls on deaf ears, and plea bargaining for no hills is as well received as a stripper at Sunday school.
I recall reading an article by recently retired Baden Cooke some years ago where he spoke of his own FRB, an annual rather than weekly or monthly occurrence for him. Unlike mere mortals, he would no doubt have a pretty good base to draw upon, and even after a month or two off the bike (and probably partying hard as Cookie was known to do), he would still have the kind of condition most of us could only dream of. Yet he suffered the same mental and physical barriers as a normal rider does, but with a distinctly different approach, namely a 300km ‘hell ride’ from which he’d return some seven hours later with a sense that his season was now ready to start. A 50km jaunt with a couple of efforts thrown in seems almost laughable by comparison, but mirth never seems to enter the equation until the bike is racked and the celebratory beer is poured.
By the conclusion of the FRB, everything always seems much better, no matter how badly you’ve suffered, how far out the ass you were, what portion of your lungs you’ve coughed up. Just when you think you could take no more, the surVival instincts kick in and wring one, two, three last droplets of the Essence of V from within, and gives pride a swift kick up the ass for good measure. The next day you are renewed, and can’t wait to do it again.
Just not any longer than a week away, ok?
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This resonates!! But for me it always seems to be, and has recently certainly been, the FFRB; First Few Rides Back. These days I get madly worried if I miss any individual training session.
I always feel that at the beginning of the FRB my legs feel amazing, just crushing the watts and that I can do no wrong. Then 35km later, just standing up for a little hill sends excruciating pain down through the guns. Its only once you get home that you realize you need to do it all over again in hopes that the pain comes later, hopefully after you have dropped everyone else.
Yeah, I hear ya and it reminds me of a long story that's relevance is only revealed at the end:
It was during my year of surgical internship and I had just started my one month rotation on the Surgical ICU ward. We had this old guy who had been in a car accident, operated on the night before and was now on the vent in the ICU with a breatjing tube in his throat. I was not there for the operation, just picked him up on my first day in the SICU. I took care of him every morning and night on rounds, ordered all the meds, checked his labs, x-rays, etc for days, and then, weeks. We tried multiple times to wean him off the vent but he could never do it. Through out the month I often wondered about him, what he was like, what he thought about, what were his hobbies as I drew more blood, checked his labs, got pimped morning and night by the Attendings about him day after day. Finally, the day before my rotation was to end we were finally able to wean him off the vent and extubate him (take his breathing tube out). We all waited with bated breath to hear his first words: Would he be incredulous to still be alive, would he wonder about a loved one, would he perhaps be thankful. My senior residents and I gathered around him and waited as he looked up at us through groggy eyes and with a wrasping voice said, "My ASS hurts!" quickly followed by "You know that night nurse? She's a REAL BITCH" and then he laid back and went to sleep.
So, relevance? I have finally climbed on the bike (rollers) again starting this month after a many month layoff and my ass hurts!!!
@Buck Rogers I'm back at it after a long hiatus now too, and surprisingly, out of all the things that do hurt, my ass is not one of them.
After taking 7 weeks off the bike this fall to help my brother deliver a brother deliver a boat across the Atlantic followed by a few more weeks to get my affairs in order upon my return, it feels like every ride since is the FRB. With winter weather and lack of light, I manage to get two or three hours a week in a good spin class and maybe 50 - 60 miles on the actual bike. Every time I throw a leg over the bike, I can't help but think - will I fall apart on this ride?
I haven't so far, but I still can't get over the feeling. Having the Seattle Ronde to train for and a little more Rule 9 compliance will help me get over it I hope.
The FRB is what keeps me on my toes, in constant fear or injury or illness. It forces me on vacations or business trips to spin for hours on hotel exercise equipment, while my family members bathe in the sun. The fear of the FRB has become my cross to bear.
Just suffered a nasty flu, and had a shocking ELEVEN days off the bike, the most since last April. After three days back on the medieval torture device, the familiar and comforting dull ache has returned to the guns. They say that no one actually likes the pain, they just learn how to deal with it.
I don't know... I actually like it. And I missed it.
A related phenomenon for those of us of advanced age is "Food is Really a Bitch" not to mention alcohol. It has been tough to maintain climbing weight around the holidays. My training sloughed off, but did not stop. I was able to maintain a good bit of riding time throughout the fall and have hit it again hard since Christmas. Thankfully, in Northern California that is possible. My flat work has been good, but the climbing times have slowed - lugging uphill the additonal 10 pounds (10? maybe 15) I gained since mid-November has been a grim reminder of how much I like to eat and drink. When you hit 50 or 60 it takes forever to work that nasty junk of the trunk. In order to improve the climbing only one thing will work at this stage - lose the blubber - every ride must have a goal to achieve this and every meal must have a governor. I am again practicing my "push-aways". Great write up Brett - thanks for the inspiration.
This is why I'm a community member here: articles that resonate and like-minded folks who "get it." Winter here in SE Wisconsin is proving a challenge to external rides. Frigid temps and snow and ice make road rides a tricky proposition. I rode outside first week of December and then didn't get out until first weekend in January. I have a trainer in the garage, but that's merely a second-class substitute for the real thing.
Two rides in this year so far - both in the low 60kms. Both done in cold, windy temps with some icy patches on ride #2. Both purposely done without food. Both finished with the man with the hammer on my tail but not quite catching me. The sense of satisfaction from these rides - despite the filthy bike, gear, frozen toes and general proclamation to all who saw me from their warm cars that I'm crazy - was immense.
There will be more rides like these for sure, but these are what lay the base for the good months when the weather gods look down benevolently, the legs spin effortlessly, the gear is minimal and the kms just keep clicking by. First ride back, but best foot forward.
@Buck Rogers
egg crate saddles.....
(Oh, and Dr. Rogers, if you are indeed a doctor, tell me the three main indications for inserting a tracheostomy tube. Then go get me coffee)