Dancing with bugs

I was riding the hairy edge of longer hours in the saddle and colder temps outside when a cold virus knocked me off my feet.  Only a few days of no riding, but it’s amazing how much a virus takes out of one’s ambition to write on their blog…

The snow fell and melted, fell and melted again and Saturday’s training ride came around with a sunny and 45 degree forecast; it was time to push it a bit again.  A large group turned out, the sun warmed the front of the Starbucks and folks chatted away, catching up, some after a winter-long absence from the ride.  It all made me feel less bad about cutting from fourteen hours down to five and then then ten in the two weeks before.  A group of five or six Garmin-kitted juniors were there, the largest single team, along with another junior from the Frontrangers, a local junior team that Karl wants to join next year. 

We rolled away, fifty strong and I settled into the paceline wondering how everything would fall into place today.  I wasn’t feeling bad, just a bit of phlegm (isn’t that a cool word to type?).  We turned on Boulder and the group split as about ten guys nearly ran the light.  We slowly brought them back before leaving Platte, but already the pace was spitting people out the back.  At one light, a red-faced fellow in matching jersey sputtered about how no one else seemed to breathing hard. 

‘We’re just hiding it.’ I laughed, but never saw him again.

South onto Marksheffel and the pace slows into the south wind.  ‘This is the slowest we’ve ever climbed this hill’ and Cody isn’t kidding.  Soon the pace increases and a double paceline forms.  I’m feeling Ok enough to move into it and I take a longer pull.  Not bad, but just as I pull off, a couple of juniors blast out from behind, attacking. 

‘What the fuck?’  Tired, I drift back twenty wheels and take it easy.  Five juniors tried to hit it hard and then died in the wind.  Not good form, attacking an old bloke like me.  Later, I think that maybe they downplayed the strength of the wind while coasting in my draft, but it was still bad form to attack.  Now, though, they are stuck on the front; not one of the older guys is moving to the front for them.  They’re too dumb to figure out why.

The pace goes up and down, led by the antics for the teenagers on the front.  When it’s time to climb Link Hill, I don’t have the gumption to make a big effort and slowly let the group pass.  It just doesn’t feel right and I listen to the body and back off.  For the next five miles or so, I beat a tempo and cruise about 20mph into the wind, catch another guy and chat until the group doubles back after the second sprint.  I’m pleased that I’m recovering, bummed at the loss of form to the virus, but eager to be on the upside with races starting in a month.