This morning’s ride: 1:00:00 or so. Distance: call it 15 miles. RPM 92-ish.
I now quote myself from five o’clock this morning: “Mmmmph? Urrgh? Uh, nnnnnnnnnng….”
That’s what two solid weeks of lolling abed until 9AM does to ya.* Oh, well. Back to the grind.
My bike didn’t seem to want to do any work either. My cadence counter didn’t start working until about three miles into the ride, so my RPM is guesswork. At one point when I thought I was doing about 90 RPM, I counted strokes for 10 seconds and wound up at 16. I did the advanced math (which I define as “anything my genius prep-school son can do better than I,” which is most of it) while riding, and discovered I was going 96. Not bad.
…and then I climbed a hill. No worries. I’m certain I kept up the pace. Reasonably certain. Well, it felt like I did…
No. I know I was keeping a good pace. So good, that I had to stop for a quick sip of water about six miles in. I decided to pause my GPS/timer while I took the sip…and forgot to restart. I didn’t remember that I did this until about five miles later. That’ll learn me: don’t stop the timer. If I stop for some reason, it counts in the entirety of the event. Unless–I can somehow stop time for everyone else as well…oh yes, you laugh at me now, but who’ll have the last laugh when I use my Time-Stopping Device TO CONQUER THE WORLD!!! MUAHAHAHAHAAAAA!
Um. Sorry. I guess I’m still a bit loopy from lack of sleep. Okay, loopier.
At any rate, it was a route I’ve taken before, and it’s been fifteen miles every time I’ve ridden it before, and I always arrive back home almost exactly an hour after I leave, so I’m pretty confident in the time/distance generalities as listed above.
There were two interesting observations made this morning (outside the previous one where I note that trying to cheat on my time almost always backfires): At one point on my ride–which was partially along the Erie Canal path–someone ahead of me rolled into view, wearing baggy jeans, an oversized flannel shirt, and some sort of grey stocking cap. It was a rollerblader, slouching along like just about every ‘blader I’ve ever seen. Except that as I got closer, I realized that this wasn’t a teenaged boy, and that wasn’t a grey stocking cap. It was a woman in her mid-sixties. But the physical attributes and ’screw you’ attitudinal display was there, and I wondered if it’s not something about the process of rollerblading that causes the attitude, much like riding a bike causes middle-aged men to stuff themselves into spandex shorts.
Or maybe she’s just a grumpy old lady. What’s my excuse?
The other thing I saw was a leaf. An aspen leaf. Riding along the canal, one sees thousands upon thousands of leaves, but this one was different: It was yellow. And it was falling. I’ve just gotten used to summer, and already it’s turning. I know I have more than a month of summer, and doubtless at least a month of mild autumnal weather, but it’s on the way. And then it will be winter, and I’ll be back in the basement again, and I’m closer in time to my goal, but not as close as I want to be to the physical shape required to reach that goal.
But it’s still summer, and there’s nothing for me to do about it but pedal. 1.5 revolutions per second. I’ll let the rest work itself out as it happens.
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*In the interest of full disclosure: There was one morning where I rose at 4:30, put on a suit, and watched my son get married, but that doesn’t count because I didn’t sleep much the night before. Also, what does it say about my life that the only time in the past thirteen years that I’ve worn a suit and tie I was standing on a beach at dawn?**
**It says I live a pretty frikkin’ awesome life!
