Monday, October 15, 2012

ask ludwig

CONTENT WARNING: Lopsided shop-talk, Cramblett true-believer-ism

Yesterday I got my ass beat. This was deeply demoralizing, given that the occasion was a Sunday bike ride supposedly centered on cinnamon rolls. Alas, pastry-pace for a pack of ripped, racing-shape roadies is for me apparently a cardiac event. I'm pretty sure Tomales and surrounds were some kind of bronzed bucolic beautiful, but when I roll tape there's nothing but my own blood roaring, the alien scream of wheels of pavement, and incidental eye contact with nonplussed cows.

But here's the thing. It's been more than a year since I've done a ride that long or that tough1. I'm not fit for it; it was in places wretched. And you know what hurts most this morning?


I always get punished for optimism. I am loathe, loathe to declare even the smallest victory: I'll crash next weekend, I'll slip in the shower, I'll get lupus, something, I know it.

But on the off chance it makes it a difference to someone else out in the ether, I'll say it anyway: this rebuild's going up. Believe there's a difference between slowly and never; believe it and put in the work.
1. Tough for me, I mean, not the natural-born killers.
2. CliffsNotes version for anyone not current with all my whining: I'm trying to rewire myself to be less crooked and injury-prone. A tired core instead of a tired hip is a first, fantastic.

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