A solid couple of weeks of training resulted in a failed attempt at sprint intervals last night. My legs just couldn’t do it, finish off what was started, spinning up the cranks, firing off the muscles. Nothing, absolutely nothing.
But I am more than happy with this failure, with the fatigue and pain in my legs. It means I've been working hard, training well. A few days of recovery and my legs will be purring happy, demonstrably stronger, faster.
Tuesday night track training, and we are taking laps off the bike, into an aggressive headwind. " I need a haircut" Peter is off the front, and beginning to struggle with his second effort. Coach points at me as we roll past, yells: go help him. So I jump, and chase. And chase. And chase. Then blow, having made little ground on Peter. And as I blow I think: how the hell am I going to be able to help him? If I catch him I’ll be too buggered to do anything but hang on to his wheel. Needless to say, the joke about “help is coming” was ongoing and well polished by the end of the session. It was a tough night of training, but a helluva lotta fun.
Tonight, I’ve bailed on racing. I’ll be lucky to stay with the bunch, let alone be in any state to make moves on the bunch. Recovery time has started as of this morning. There is a fine line between recoverable fatigue and jumping into the black pits of eternal hell. Besides, my sinuses are playing up with the beast of a northerly today.