One Grain at a Time

Over the weekend, which is to say Sunday now that I'm working 65+ hours a week again, I received a little grief from a good friend and avid reader, TF (yes, F --  I'm not dragging the Doctor's good name into this) for not posting in so long. After bellyaching about work, I realized she was right, and I resolved to post more frequently, if not as ramblingly or even on topic as I have. The important thing here is to fill the vacuum of the internet with the sound of my own voice, right? 

Most of my riding lately has been commuting. I just haven't had the time or energy to do long training rides on the road bike. Besides, I'm not prepping for anything, so riding right now is about fun, general fitness, and transportation.

That said, I was really looking forward to spending a couple of hours perched on my Selle Italia, robed in spandex and resplendent upon my carbon steed on Sunday. Then I turned into the wind -- a steady 20 mph with gusts to 37. Buffeted as they would hit me from the 3/4, I would have to manhandle my slowly cranking machine to keep it upright, as though I were climbing some col or alp even as I headed downhill toward the beach.

Then there was the sand. I felt like I was getting full-body microdermabrasion the entire time I was on the bikepath. It may be hard to see the sand drifting and swirling across frame in these pictures, but as my iPod began to serve up the mysterious funk of a track from Bitches Brew, I began to have the feeling of being involved in some sort of epic battle in a distant galaxy fought between a few large, developed carbon life forms and millions of tiny silicon ones in a loose metaphor for the coming dominance of the Chinese and their masses much like Herbert's allegory for Islam and oil in Dune. Since he and Crichton are both dead, I've already registered the treatment with the WGA, so don't get any ideas, Stretch.

I knew I could only take this for so long. Worse, I knew that the crosswind would be slightly more on my nose on the way back up the path once I turned around. I made peace with the fact that this would only be an hour's ride, and the music moved on to Big Swifty as I looped around to head home. As the sand pelted me, I cranked out a consistent tempo, hunkered down in the drops, and tried not to look at the fact that my computer was telling me that a 160bpm heart rate was only yielding 13 mph. Fr those of you not into hrm training, let me make a comparison: I felt like Cristophe Moreau after he got gapped in the winds while wearing the French champion's tricolore on Stage 11 of the 2007 Tour de France. The difference is that his hot French crosswinds smelled of lavender while mine of stinging and blindness.

Finally, I hit the Ballona Creek portion of the path and the home stretch. Sadly, the wind was never fully at my back, but it was at least mostly behind me now and without such easy ammunition. Before showering, I caught myself in the mirror and felt a little like one of my heroes, a man much harder than I who would have gotten in his entire ride without complaint: Stuey O'Grady, upon winning the 2007 Paris-Roubaix. Of course, he didn't have to ride to work the next day.