66 Miles

Drank a bottle of electrolytes, fried some eggs, made a pot of coffee. 

Other than a hot shower and a nap, that is about it for today’s post-event recovery. I am trying to keep from quaffing ales until I get a little deeper on the Sunday to-do list. That list runs long. 

The recovery is from our annual birthday ride, with the target today of blowing out 66 candles from the metaphorical cake of life. What was initially scheduled to be a double Chilly Hilly, our February season-opening 33 miler, but it was suggested yesterday that we take it inside to the PowerBarn to better our longevity odds as the air quality was predicted to be less than ideal. It seems that we are surrounded by smoke, southbound winds fanning flames in British Columbia and northerlies nudging it northward from California. 

As movie curator for the PB, we do Sunday rides to movies in the fall and winter, I thought it might be fun to watch a movie about firefighters. My selection of Only the Brave, turned out to be long, 2:15, with a tear inducing ending. I don’t need to tell you what that means. 

After the movie, clean up, a birthday cupcake and good-byes, I headed out to the Safeway to return the DVD. Stopping at the Rite-Aid to replenish beer supplies I sat in the truck listening to the final chapter of Stranger in a Strange Land while debating if I should have a cold one as reward for my 66 mile effort. I chose to wait and work the list despite the malaise, disorientation and chest pains that have been frustrating me all week. Last night was another long, uncomfortable toss and turn, try to relax, what is my heart doing this time, affair. 

There are two waking tactics that, to this point, have reduced the anxiety. I refuse to call it pain because there is none - unless you want to call thinking that your next breath might be your last as painful. A better description might be it doesn’t physically hurt, it is just nightmarish. 

Oddly, the two things that calm this anti-stasis are cycling and beer. I can usually find some combination of power, resistance and cadence to find and combine into sweet-spot therapeutic movement. My mind seems calm when in this zone with deep diaphragmatic breaths consoling my heart with rhythm and joy. After a round of 2x20s, a civilized spin set or even today's two-hour movie cruise, a cold beer adds an optimistic layer of celebratory accomplishment. What it does to my metabolism is another story. 

The down side is that I get lazy and want nothing more than the safety of my media room comfort zone. And then sleep. 

It is a routine that has been so long in the making that it is now habitual. And this, I can sense, is not all good. 

Deep inside, I know the answer. The correct one. 

I need to determine, call it trial and error or the scientific method, if alcohol might be the trigger setting off the shotgun blast of my symptoms. My internal lawyer (Mr De Nile) tells me that 36 ounces of fermented hops could not possibly be responsible for symptoms that would make even Jack Bauer sing like a canary. Additionally, he reminds me, you made it to 66 this way, that has gotta be worth something. 

Yes, I answer, it is, but it might be worth noting that things have changed, and alternative strategies might very well be the means to the end of riding 67 this time next year.