Measures of Form

Signe and her Mom were watching Dancing with the Stars, so I retired – with my tired legs – to our room. Signe’s laptop in my hand. With my legs up I watched the Greatest Show on Earth which involved stars from a different era and a different continent, and while they are dancing with partners, it bears little resemblance to the program showing downstairs.

I was half-watching the movie, half talking with Justin on g-chat and messaging my tired, broken feeling legs. Last week was the biggest week of riding I’ve taken on in a long time. It wasn’t planned, there was no thought of supercompensation. In short I’ve just been riding since my garmin died. It wasn’t working that well to begin with, and after it went caput and happened to be out of warranty I decided to skip replacing it and just worry about riding. I wasn’t riding that much anyway, not enough to actually be considered “training” at least. I had gone so far as to start recording my milage as kilometers in a attempt to feel better about the riding I was doing. Ks are also Euro/everywhere else cool, so there was a second reason for my decision.

Last week was 393 K which I chased the following Monday by riding 120k of beautiful blue skies, rolling hills and Port Towsend Espresso. It made me tired, but giddy. I invited Justin up to ride.

“Banana Belt is those three weeks, I missed Eugene Roubaix, so these races are mandatory”

“I understand”. As a good friend should.

Justin was flying the last time we rode together, and we talked about his form, and of course his power output. All things I used to love geeking out about. Measures of potential success that I still fall into geeking about when I think about what its like to actually train for something and not just ride even though just riding suits me just fine. In the last two years it was weight, always too much of it, time and speed at threshold and the more esoteric; “good sensations”.

Earlier, on the ride back to the Kingston Ferry I stopped for a small coke. I place the bottle in my left rear jersey pocket and pedaled the last two k or so to the ferry dock. I thought about how sometimes, I missed the numbers and the knowing, but at the same time I was happy to be free of all that. That leaves me free to find success in other small, but at the moment more meaningful measures of success. The ease with which I can sit up, remove my jacket and stuff into the middle pocket of my jersey in a single fluid motion. The ability to ride down a bumpy road with a volatile carbonated beverage and at the end open it without an explosion. And yes, attacking a hill, or the new group you’re riding with because you have good sensations and even bad sensations, but decide to do it anyway. I decide to gain some measure of delight from these other indicators of form because they speak to a subtleness and understanding of the qualities I’d like to cultivate in my life.

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