I don’t belong out here just yet.
It has been a while since I last felt at home, out here.
I’m out of the woods, literally. Whatever robbed me of capacity to exercise seems to have dissipated and it is time to get some fitness back. By hook or by crook.
So I am out here, riding. Two hours in and the pedal strokes still seem to be coming strong. I’m going to ascend Conic Hill, drop down the other side, to the banks of Loch Lomond, then head for home.
In the woods, where I have been riding this last few months, it is all upper body, direction and balance work. Brief, hard efforts, but mostly trying to find my flow in-between the trees. Not much use for building endurance. Good fun, though.
The first ride where I need to push the pedals for more than an hour without a break is always strange. It usually comes just as the frustration of winter confinement reaches a new level of insufferablility. I often struggle to break through, to become used to hours of effort rather than seconds. It signals the slow grind to fitness for spring and summer riding. Next will come the ‘time accelerating’ part. I will ride and before I know it four hours will pass. Then six and so on.
I struggle to ride Conic Hill, the 32:36 is nowhere near as low as I have become used to. There must be something to these extended range cassettes. Either that, or I am truly in a sorry place.
Four hours hurt today, but it is good. I don’t belong just yet, but I will soon.