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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Wise words. Just don't ride into the back of parked cars. That'll hurt. Does get you, on the NHS, a free massage as the doctor checks if you've ruptured your spleen. That's riding that's not at all worthwhile.
(The bike, amazingly, was OK, but then the commuter is a tank)
Interestingly, I sent an article to Gianni with similar subject matter; for a little while due to family commitments I was only being able to get out for hour long rides.
It ends up feeling like time trial, unrelenting from start to finish to wring the uttermost out of the time you have in the saddle.
That said, training for an event means that I'm trying to up the distances. Did 100kms on Friday night, and survived.
Sounds very familiar. My winter training was productive despite a box-fresh Velominipper because he was sleeping through and my VMH was well rested and happy for me to go ride. All that ended when the VMN forgot how to sleep, the VMH was sleep deprived and the luxury of weekend rides was swapped for quality time with the wee man while the VMH caught up on missed sleep. Training went out the window, performance stagnated and my only two wheel time became the daily commute. These are now attacked with vigour. The luxury of easy miles no longer exist; if I'm going to maintain any sort of form I have to ride like I mean it. I'm not sure how, but it's working at the moment - it's neither fun nor pleasant but that's no surprise. What does surprise me is that my enthusiasm goes up with the intensity and being able to see gains from fewer kms is keeping me going.
For now...
Hurr hurr, you said alveolus...
After years of hoping, the VMH finally said last week, "I'd like to do some road cycling with you." Wow! In the past I bugged her to come out, then let it go. What a lovely surprise! Country roads, an hour of spinning along, a beautiful Sunday morning. She gets plenty of exercise from work and walking the dogs, but doesn't do much plain ol' exercise for fun or fitness. Much to my surprise, she called me yesterday morning and said on the walk with the dogs, she decided to do some jogging! I had her hooked! I've long told her once you get all that oxygen in ya, you are hooked. YEP, it's a drug to feel the rush in your lungs.
This article fits in with my life since last October. Took a new, full-time job, which I'm enjoying. Also has me finally pushing to get the hell out of grad school, since working two jobs sucks. Ride time has gone from "Dissertation OR...five hours of cycling?" to Sunday morning and M-F commutes. I felt guilty for awhile. Then I realized...I'm still riding 7 days a week and I finally have some goddamn money. Oh, this ain't so bad.
I'm at a great point. All the cycling I do, I thoroughly enjoy. Yeah, my fitness isn't there, but my life has a lot more balance than this time last May. I can't complain
Its not just your alveolus, your epidermis is showing too....
Nice socks
Control levers are mounted too high.
Very nice piece, sir Frank - and very timely: I've been working like a maniac these past weeks (hence the almost total radio silence), but the occasional 1- to 1,5-hour rides I've managed to squeeze in at odd times have been precious - and yes, they did proceed at more-or-less constant full throttle until the lights went out. Bliss. Quality over quantity, indeed.
That is one heck of a long-sleeved jersey right there, by the way. Wouldn't mind one of those...
@unversio
Definitely close on a Rule #46 violation. In fact they really look as though they are mounted where someone who spends all their time on the hoods would put them don't ya think?