Bring on the pain

It seemed like a pretty genius idea. After carefully observing every flag on the drive home, diligently studying the weather channel, and finally consulting a city map to get my bearings straight, I was absolutely positive that this ride, through a combination of planning and good fortune, would keep me out of the wind for all but the shortest stretches. Oh, how I was wrong.

The master plan was to head down to the river bottoms in St. Paul and follow the Mississippi all the way up to Minneapolis. The wind was coming out of the east, so this would keep the wind more or less at my back, or I would be shielded by the river bluffs. It almost worked. But wind has a way of finding its way into every cranny of a landscape, and yesterday was no different.

Everything seemed alright for the first half of the ride. Heading up the river to Minneapolis I was able to hold steady right around 22mph. My legs felt pretty good. I was right at that break point where any extra push would cause me to blow up. It was good. I like the feeling when you know you're running just under your capacity.

Then I turned east to cross back over the river and head back home. It's always slower going up and over the bridges - your momentum is lost, and you're climbing essentially a small hill. Yesterday was worse though. I got hit square in the face with a 20 mph wind. I could barely go straight; it was whipping and hissing all around me. I slogged along, looking rather pathetic as I crushed my pedals just to keep moving forward.

The pain didn't end. By the time I had reached Summit my legs felt like they were going to fall off. I was only 3 miles from home, but it felt like a marathon lay in front of me. The wind was having its way with me, and there wasn't much to do about it. I tried to fall in behind a mountain biker, but at the first light he moved over to let me pass. Bastard. I needed a break. I saw his shadow attach to my shadow, and watched as our combined two-headed shadow pushed on up Summit. I don't know why, but I was pissed. He had ruined my chance to get a break. I remembered a post I had read by sprinter della cassa about how to beat a sprinter, which amounted to making them work to hang on. I dropped a few gears and layed into my pedals. I watched my speed slowly tick up, mile an hour by mile an hour. Slowly, I extracted his shadow from mine.

Just a few more miles. I kept thinking that it would end soon, but I had promised myself that I'd go up the Grand Ave hill. At least the wind would be at my back. I started up the hill, slowly at first, and then gradually building speed. By the time I rounded the curve at the top and made the final push up to Dale I was nothing short of a vision of agony. My eyes were bloodshot and burning from all the sweat. My lungs seared, and my legs felt as though they had been filled with battery acid.

Counter to every physical impulse, I started to feel really good. I had worked my ass off to hold my speed, I had pushed harder than any other ride this year; it had totally, unequivocally sucked balls, but I had done it. I hadn't gone in early, and I hadn't given in. It felt great.