If you have to choose, choose quality over quantity
My lungs feel my favorite way my lungs can feel. Every breath I take tells me the whereabouts of each alveolus. They feel raw, like they were scraped clean and opened up anew after a period of dormancy. Every breath tells me their exact shape and depth, where my lungs end and where my diaphragm begins. I feel high, as though my freshly cleaned lungs are letting too much oxygen into the system and it’s not quite sure what to do with it other than to make everything feel more Awesome.
Cycling is, unequivocally, without question, a drug.
At my back lies a winter of frustration; my training has been behind all year with me neither having nor making the time to get the hours in that I am used to. I’ve never been a thoroughbred, but this winter I haven’t even been a donkey. I’ve been a mule. It feels good to say it out loud, actually.
“Hi, my name is Frank. I’m a mule.”
“Hi, Frank.”
I’ve always favored the 2 hour ride over one, three hours over two, four over three. The best rides are sun-up to sun-down endeavors that have me crawling into the kitchen or pub for a recovery session. On one notable occasion I got off my bike and sat at the side of the road in the pouring rain, just to contemplate how I might manage to ride up the final steep ramp to get back home. (Spoiler alert: I finally arrived at the conclusion to climb aboard my bike and pedal up the hill, something that seems a lot more obvious in hindsight than it did at the time.)
I’ve become more opportunistic in my training since arriving at some basic condition through getting my head kicked in for nine days at Keepers Tour. Since then, I cherish those small windows in my schedule that allow for a quick ride and jump at the opportunity, even if it’s just for an hour. The shorter the ride, the harder the ride. No mercy. Stop lights? Interval to the next one, like some idiot Cycleway Hero. Climb? Hit it until the lights go out. False flat into the wind? 53×11 and out of the saddle until the legs turn into Jell-O.
Today’s ride was 90 minutes. Full gas, start to finish; I was a Cat 5 on Race Day, born again. If I was stopped at a light, it was a double-down sprint to make up for lost time like a dog let off its leash trying to catch up to where it would have been if it had been loose the whole time. Everything my mind asked for, my body gave. Everything my body needed, The V provided. Today was a reminder that if quantity and quality are on offer, take them both. But if you have to pick one, quality will go a long way to make up for quantity. I’d rather ride a little every day than not ride every day. And a short ride, done right, can put you in the box just the same.
In the immortal words of The Prophet, “Ride as much or as little, or as long or as short as you feel. But ride.”
Vive la Vie Velominatus.
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@TommyTubolare
I was at a church picnic last year and our priest was (three sheets to the wind) saying some very non-Catholic things (and likely coveting a few things enough to violate a commandment here or there). I kept my yap shut but did enjoy the show...
That said, bib makers are producing some fuck-long bibs and component makers have hoods which require some creativity in putting them in the proper location (not the super high, fop position of some pros). Perhaps a hack saw to shore up the lever length and restore the universe to harmony?
@frank
Makes sense - but why carry two telegraph poles in your jersey - something to lean on after sampling the beer?
@Gianni
Now we're talking! Malteni kit, very nice! William is sending you some but might suck as much at shipping stuff as I do!
@unversio
I love the idea of being fast enough in a sprint that Go-Button Position matters. I am a Rouleur, not a Puncheur.
Well,did a hard-ish one today into a head/side wind and the excuse of a pair of guns I have are now complaining a tad but a 7th overall Strava segment(actually for the most of the ride)means I must be doing something right.
Oh and this is how you carry a beer in style;
And drinking on the move;
@Teocalli
Because when I'm on the drops it's often when I'm descending like a demon. Or shitting myself, so a handful of brake is essential.
I can descend quite quickly due to my massive bulk but I think my imagination is too good to be a really good descender. I can picture too easily the consequences of hitting a damp manhole cover, or pothole, or loose bit of surfacing...that said, there is a local road where I touch 80kms/hr each time I descend.
@frank
Eh? I've got both 10 Spd (centaur) and 11 Spd (record). The levers are the same size, I measured. I like my shifters dead level thusly.
@frank
You for real or you're acting dumb?
I never questioned your personal set up and don't care what rules you follow, obviously you missed that in my post. No ergos talk, 10 or 11 and how they are positioned. You added this shit later just to confuse what matters - bar angle.
But if you want to fucking pretend and lie that the angle of your bars is between 180 and 175 then fucking do it, but you're either blind or don't know what horizontal is.
So, Mr. Compliant, next time you make rules with your hippie friends you might consider actually following them, cause you're clearly super fucking pissed and obnoxious when somebody points out violations.
And I'm gonna pretend that this thread never existed.
@TommyTubolare
Have you mislaid your sense of humour or piss take capability or have you just worked hard at it?