The day started with the lure of sunshine, calm winds and no rain – conditions not seen together almost all week.  The sun however bright was only 6 degrees which prompted a long debate in the garage before leaving: gloves and numb hands or no gloves and probably numb hands.  I’d learned recently that irrespective of the forecast temperatures later in the day, there is no such thing as a warm 3 degrees unless of course it was just -20 degrees.

Several days ago, in my morning-addled brain, I reasoned that while it was indeed brisk at the moment, the promise of a 25 degree afternoon surely suggested that my appendages and digits would be warm in the morning sun.  It was only after the point of no return (IE the bottom of the big hill) that I admitted my folly.  There was not going to be any warmth from the sun and further to that, the very cold aluminium bits on the bike gave me a first-hand lesson in their heat-transferring abilities, promptly freezing any bit of flesh unfortunate enough to come into contact with it.  A warm 3 degrees…yeah.

6 degrees proved to be marginally warmer but I was quickly distracted by the “calm” wind which was now “calmly” blowing head-on at 20km/h.  All thoughts of casual and relaxed spinning went by the wayside as I got down to the business of ego grinding into the headwind at a sustainable pace.  The only cyclist I passed was stopped in the middle of path looking perplexed.  The McKnight underpass was closed off due to flooding and he hadn’t managed to cogitate a solution yet.  I did however, though I’m certain it involved at least a handful of ticket-worthy offenses so I’ll not relay it out loud.  It was sufficient however as it put me back on the path in short order (only to run into the same issue at the 40th ave underpass).

All day I kept watch of the flags outside work.  Ordinarily they are little more than a poke in the eye as they gleefully communicate the change from a south wind into a north wind an hour or two before I head north.  They play such a mental game with my enthusiasm that I’ve made a point of avoiding them lest my spirits be crushed on the way out the door.  It shouldn’t matter – a headwind is just hill training they tell me, but it invariably does.  I think it’s the unfairness factor (because life and nature are bound by the laws of fairness obviously) having ridden to work in a headwind and having to ride home in a headwind again.

Today the flags parlayed only great things – the strong, steady south wind had not diminished and turned, rather it was going strong, still blowing from the south.  A tailwind!  Without going into tedious detail involving the click, click, click of the derailleur or the wheezing or the lactic acid burn, it is sufficient to say I had a very good ride home.  3 new personal records on various stretches of the commute and an entertaining ride on top of it.

After digging in to try and score a PR on one of the middle stretches, I tried once again to sit back and “spin”, just taking it all in and trying to enjoy the ride.  This is not a place I’m comfortable in.  It’s difficult to scale back the effort and just glide along but glide I did.  I watched as the bicycle behind me started growing larger, looming ever closer.  I tried to distract myself looking around, looking down, making a conscious effort to stay relaxed.  99% of me was wondering why I didn’t get on it and rabbit away – how can you just let this guy pass you?  Aren’t you even going to try?  He’s going to pass you!  I kept my casual pace up, gritting my teeth until finally he went by, big grin on his face.

I couldn’t do it.  Could. Not. Do it!  I chased him.  In some ill-formed notion of “still gliding” I decided not to pass him but I chased him, pushing, pushing, goading him on.  I wheeled up tight behind him then coasted, my freewheel clicking away loudly as he looked over his shoulder.  My turn to grin.  He road all over the path trying to cut corners, even passing someone who was already in the process of passing someone on the left.  Eventually he shot off the end of the path, caught a break in traffic and headed off on his own.  I continued my journey leading to the inevitable kilometer long climb standing between me and home but not before getting passed.

He’d entered the path at the 8th Ave overpass in front of me. Despite a solid effort on my part, I could not reel him in, in the 8 block sprint we had before he headed towards my old nemesis climb.  I was taking the straight north route, newly paved and freshly opened for this year.  He was riding the detour route and perhaps, I thought, going east, not north.  Ah, such was not the case.  Despite my earlier chase and his detoured route, he still managed to catch, pass and drop me without much effort.  I laughed when he passed me, my ego  checked but not bruised.

What a difference that bit of speed makes.  Fighting and pushing and pumping it out at 35 and 40km/h, despite succumbing to a faster rider is still more rewarding and more gratifying than grinding along in a headwind at 25.  Or 22 and still passing people.  Oh sure, there’s ego at play – can’t deny that, but in the end, it’s all about the speed. I’m an addict!  I’m going to need a faster bike…

Well, so much for spinning away the evening on the trainer. Between soccer, supper, dishes, Sparks, clean up and bedtime my spinning time was more like listening to screaming time.  If I could harness the energy of just one of my children, I could power a small city.

As I drove idled home this evening, stuck in Deerfoot’s rush-hour bumper-to-bumper crawl, I couldn’t help but notice that the average speed reported by my decrepit classic BMW’s trip computer was slightly lower than a decent bicycle commute.  I don’t see it happening this season, but I really must get geared up for the spring rains if I’m going to enjoy the full riding season Calgary offers.  I don’t see myself being one of those hearty few plowing away in the snow but…

I’ve previously pontificated on the pitfalls of never and this season I’m finding a few more I’d never do that positions falling by the wayside.  I said I wouldn’t be one of those Lycra-wearing riders, especially on a commute.  Wrong.  I’ll never wear Lycra bib shorts.  Wrong.  I’ll especially never wear Lycra bib shorts on a commute.  Wrong wrong wrong.  Point of fact – my (current) favourite cycling attire are my Shamu shorts, Rev. Duex.  I wear a shirt with them only because it’s cold and because really, nobody wants to see that, including me.  Can’t say I’ll never try it mind you.

One of the other things I thought I’d never do:  spend big money on a bicycle.  Let’s be honest, in the realm of bicycle performance, the present and likely always, limiting factor of my performance is not going to be the bicycle.  Building up a feather-weight Cervelo R5ca $10,000 frame would be akin to buying a Porsche GT2 RS so I could idle to and from work in first gear, nose-to-bumper.  Even worse, unlike the Porsche, the Cervelo doesn’t come with a matching engine.  The engine would be the same one currently found in the Rescue Bike – yours truly.  That’d be like putting the old worn out Previa engine in the Porsche.

My foolishness has boundaries.  Like the Cervelo S5.  Mamma – what a gorgeous bicycle, and from a Canadian company.  I know I know, Previa engine and all that, but I don’t care.  You know who I blame though?  Thomas.  Now Thomas doesn’t ride a Cervelo, nor does the shop he races under sell them, but it’s not just the bike.  Sure, the bike is a work of art but it was Thomas’ little introduction to speed the other day that cast the bait.  After our brief sprint – which was both over all together too fast and so painful I wanted to retch – he said “yeah, that’s what we do until we get to the sprint“, and at that moment, I wanted to do that too.  Speed, it’s not like a drug, it is the drug.  The drug.

Oh sure, I have a number of other things to do before I go out plonking down $4000 on a bicycle with a drivetrain geared so tall I can’t climb my own driveway with it.  Building up some power for one.  Shedding some load for another.  Check it – a rough calculation for me to ride at 40km/h on flat ground requires an output of 363 watts.  If I were to lose say 10 pounds of bicycle and another 20 pounds of rider, that factor falls…wait a minute.  This is entirely too nerdy.  This is not a formula-laden, techie blog – I’m not qualified to talk about that.  Suffice it to say, I have managed to convince myself that it is a good idea to buy a faster bike – something else I said I’d never do.  I also said I wouldn’t buy a bike without disc brakes…

So what does it all mean?  That despite all knowledge and logical conclusions, a beautiful work of art is irrationally attractive.  That ego and ignorance will lead you into dead ends where the only exit requires eating one’s words.  That despite one’s self-delusions of your rationality, you are still prone to irrational decisions.  Not to delve too far back into the nerdy side of things, but there’s a scientific basis for this conclusion.  Studies on people who have suffered trauma to their emotional centers in the brain, but who are functioning at 100% elsewhere, can not make a decision.  There’s no such thing as a purely logical decision as people without emotions literally can’t decide.  So what does that  mean?  That having a Cervelo in the stable makes sense!  Yay science!

The 2012 Cervelo S5. A perfect choice.

I’ve been struggling with a sore-ish knee lately.  I blame Adam for planting the psychological seed.  It’s a game of mental sabotage.

Actually it’s not.  Every time I put any heavy effort into it, like climbing hard while seated, my left knee would begin to act up and become annoyingly painful.  This started in the last day or two of the first 1000km leg and caused me no small degree of concern.  I changed my approach and made it work but was still cautious.  Having ignored the childhood admonishment to “never mess up your knees – it’ll stay with you for life”, by crashing a snowmobile into an immobile object, my right knee has given me grief on and off throughout life.  More worryingly, this was my left.

I’ve been unable to get in for a massage this season, ostensibly due to limited time but more likely a side-effect of the unexpectedly brutal (but effective) deep tissue therapy session that was my last “massage”.  I went to see Ed at Prema Sai after he’d treated Trace for some chronic issues with good results.  I was tired of sessions that were close but no cigar knot where I’d leave wishing the therapist had stronger fingers.  Ed didn’t disappoint and he introduced me to a whole new level of agony while assuring me it wasn’t that bad.  I left much more knot-free than when I went in, which had been the entire point so the visit was an outstanding success.  I also left with a clear appreciation for the phrase white-hot pain.  As soon as I find my man-pants, I’ll make an appointment with Ed again and have him sort out my knee.  (Lest I’ve filled you fear about a session with Ed, Trace tells me the relaxation massage she received from him over the weekend was stellar).

Pretty that's what was hiding under the guise of the foam roller

In the meantime, I dug out the fat foam roller to see if I could mitigate things.  Last night I rolled around the living room floor in bouts of barely-controlled agony as I foam-rolled my legs.  I have no idea what I’m doing mind you but the relief after I stopped hurting myself was stupendous!  The most entertaining (if you were to be a viewer and not the rollee) was to lie on my side with the roller under my hip, then slide up until the roller was almost at the knee.  I’m pretty sure I passed out at one point though I’m not certain if that was from the morning star apparently buried in my quad or just the result of a lack of sleep.

Today’s rides bore fruit however – positive fruit.  No knee issues to speak of despite setting a new PR for the nastiest climb on my commute and hitting a 45km/h sprint shortly after.  Of course all these terms are relative – my versions of climb and sprint are I suspect considerably shorter than what a “real” cyclist might envision, particularly in light of the route Ryder was on a few days ago.  The Passo dello Stelvio is 24km long with 1800 meters of climbing making it in excess of 7% – this at the end of a 219km mountain ride.  My climb is barely a jot.

Whatever – I had an excellent ride home, an excellent ride in and met up with all-things-cycling reference / guru Thomas who was directly responsible for setting up the draft that allowed me ride the 45km/h sprint – no Thomas, no 45.  All without any knee pain before or after.

While catching my breath and trying not to heave up my breakfast on the side of the road, Thomas reminded me that going all-out every time I got on the bike was not the way to go faster.  Cycling requires some recovery periods for optimum growth and adaptation.  A mind break, a muscle break, an opportunity for amino acid chains to reform and rebuild, for neurotransmitters to replenish and muscle fibers to re-grow.

The same must be said of life too.  All work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy (and me too).  We pay lip-service to work-life balance while holding in high(er) esteem the colleague who is there before everyone else, there after everyone else and puts in a few hours on the weekend.  The unspoken message – this is how you get ahead.  Such a focus takes a toll though.

We know now through current studies and science that focused and willful action causes physical changes in the brain.  Physical.  Think about that.  Willfully.  What you spend your time doing – reading, watching, writing, listening to and thus who and what you’re spending your time with, re-shapes your brain.  The computing adage garbage in, garbage out, used to describe any number of computer-related issues from data entry to climate modelling is equally true of us and our noggins.  Think about that the next time you sit down in front of the idiot box.

In the interest of changing it up, I’ll take the opportunity provided by the coming two days of solid rain to set the Rescue Bike back on the trainer and focus on spinning.  Maybe I’ll even read a book while I’m at it.  What are you going to do?