Numbers

Three weeks ago I kicked butt on the Acacia Ride.  Two weeks ago I was dropped.  Last week I didn’t too bad, hanging with the big boys into the last sprint. 

An image pops into my head of an graying alchemist perched on a stool in a dusty room, piles of books stacked randomly on the floor, an oil lamp casting a weak shadow of a beard, over-perched by a long nose and the hat of an academic.  In his lap he is looking at a laptop computer running WKO+.  Charts populate the screen: mean wattage, watts per kilogram, CTL/ATL, TSS scores and IF numbers.

It is an alchemy of sorts, piecing through the numbers that quantify the efforts that fill in the qualitative assessments, ‘I kicked ass today’ or ‘I was dropped like a hot piece of dog crap.’  I don’t obsess about my numbers too much.  I know a small piece of viral protein can ruin a ride or a week of rides.  But it’s heartening to see a number jump out at you once in a while, perhaps an omen or a talisman of good things to come.

A Sunday ride a week and a half ago with my team up in Denver took the six of us south to Castle Pines.  It was a hilly route and I was the largest fellow in the group, so I was ready to be in pain.  We assaulted Jackass Hill (which is really fun to write; no one in the group knew why it was called that.  There’s a park by the same name as well, ‘Honey, I’m taking the kids over to Jackass this morning.’) and I focused on spinning and felt good when I didn’t fall off the back.

They were taking it easy on me, though.  We hit a series of climbs and soon I was off the back, ahead of one fellow, but behind four others, bouncing away up the climb.  Denver has had a lot of snow and it was all melting and pooling in the road with the cinder used for cars.  At twenty five miles, the turn around, we all looked like cyclocross riders out in the mud.

We pushed back and descended a hill.  On the flipside climb, my rear derailleur made a snapping sound and shifted into the smallest cog.  The cable had broken and I was now demoted from a sleek 20 speed carbon racing machine to a two speed instrument of muscular torture.  I was fine descending and on the flats with my 50x11 and 34x11 gears, but any climb was an agony of low cadence, Jan Ulrich-inspired diesel pedaling.  Ten miles in, and my legs were hurting. 

Short, non-dramatic story; I made it, even if the guys did have to soft pedal a couple of times (sorry guys).  Back in the dusty room ten days later, doffing my medieval cap and moving the lead out of the way on the desk, I notice the number, 600w for 1 minute average.  That was a good 140w higher than any 1 minute average in the previous year. 

What doesn’t kill you…