With the surprise holiday of Glasgow Fair being dropped on me at very short notice, the past couple of days have been a hectic blitz of shower-dodging training. On Friday it was a 90+ miler into the southern Trossachs, and yesterday a painful threshold session up the Crow road.
To be totally honest, the Trossachs were a little underwhelming. No doubt this wasn't helped by the overcast skies that flattened the whole landscape, driving the mountains into background for photographs that were lacking subjects. As for Duke's pass - don't get me started. The pass certainly didn't. I was under the impression that it'd be some sort of masochistic endurance test only slightly preferable to self-flagellation with razor wire, but in fact the whole thing only raises about 200m, and the gradient barely beats 10%. This, plus my good legs, meant that the climb I had been "saving myself" for was over before I'd even raised my heart rate.
It was a bit of a peleton day all told, really. I had meant to go out harder, but just wasn't feeling it. I seem to be "coming into form" (I think - having never had "form" before), which is both a good and bad thing. Good in the sense that climbing feels absolutely fantastic; bad in the sense that it's temporary, and might disappear by the time I get around to Wales.
I suppose it was a good thing I held back, though, because with about twenty miles to go I had a bonk so large radio telescopes will have to be recalibrated to ignore the repercussions of it. Scientists in the future will have theories as to what the universe was like before a bonk of this magnitude; some will even refute the existence of such a bonk, even though the evidence is all around them. Somebody might even write a book about it.
With a snap like someone closing a ring binder, I had no energy left. My pace dwindled to 10mph, and my numbed legs spun loosely. It wasn't a case of pushing being too hard - there was simply nothing to push with.
It wasn't as surprising as perhaps it should have been. Since my legs have been so good, and my climbing so much better lately, I had decided to keep an eye on what I was eating with a view to dropping a couple of kilos for the big climbs come Wales. Running a 300-500 calorie deficit over the previous few days, with no preparation for a hundred-miler, and only a couple of sandwiches to keep me company over the ride, it was no shock that I ran stocks dry. Nevertheless, I felt awful. Not because anything hurt, but because nothing hurt. Here I was, in the most intense training period before the ride, completely unable to push; had my legs been in meditation, they would probably have been empty enough to reach Nirvana, and they certainly felt that far away from me. I cringed and hung my head apologetically as cars passed me, my computer accusatorially informing me that I was spinning along (in second-to-bottom gear) at less than half my normal speed.
Long story short, I'm not dieting any more.
Yesterday was a quick threshold session up the Crow from both sides, in the rain. It's fair to say that I preferred the climbing to the descending, despite my embarrassing thousand-yard-stare, needing air so badly I couldn't even close my mouth to swallow through the hardest parts. Yes, I climbed with stupendous purpose, desperately painful even on my good legs, but at least it was warm. Descending, I was in the odd situation where it was more comfortable to adopt an aero position and drag the brakes rather than sit up, since it brought my warm legs into closer proximity to my sodden and chilly belly. The descent also took an excruciatingly long time. I didn't want to take any risks, but, come the day, this caution might actually be a bit of a problem. I really need to learn where my grip limits are - but preferably keeping my collarbones intact.
The outcome of the past couple of days, then, has been that my monthly average has utterly collapsed. Looks like I've got some work to do to drag it back up!
Good trails!
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