It's time trial season again! That's cycling time trialling, I should make clear. I knew it was looming, but had managed to wipe it from a my mind. I was in cycling denial.
As soon as I found out my first one is two weeks away, I leapt into action. I cut out food for the most part, well the foodstuffs that afford pleasure. Food for an endurance athlete, even one as modest in his abilities as this one, is fuel. It's not to be enjoyed; it's to be endured. The only upside to food when one is training is that it stops you shaking when you've overdone it on the bike.
As well as not eating fun stuff, I've cut the portion size of the rest of it by at least a third. I do feel lighter, which is good. It's all about power to weight ratios, this game. Which brings us to the second part of the preparations: training.
I went out after work last evening and did my first interval session. Intervals involve going hell-for-leather for a short period and then having a rest. You do this eight times. It's quick. Unfortunately it also makes you look like a loon. You ride along as if all is well with the world, and suddenly, apparently for no reason, go crackers. You ride with the intensity of a man fleeing a hippo. Ten seconds later you stop and calm descends once more. Other cyclists can and do take offence at this type of training. Understandably so. You fly past someone like he's going backwards, only to sit up and let him catch you shortly thereafter. It looks like you're taking the piss, frankly.
I'm feeling it today. I can scarcely keep me eyes open. Luckily today is the portal to a bank holiday weekend, so I couldn't give a shite. A couple of real ales this evening, a homemade curry will restore the tissues.
Right, home time.
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