I did a 170km ride yesterday, in an average temperature of 32°C. On a mountain bike. Because Strava wanted me to.
I rode the MTB because the weather in general has been thrashing rain alternating with periods of blasting humidity – and I didn’t want to be caught out in a potential downpour on my road bike, since that thing is frankly terrifying in the rain.
But that’s not the thing that’ll kill me.
When I arrived home, I had – not surprisingly, given the distance and temperature – some issues with chamois-area soreness. In my house are several tubes of a topical corticosteroid (prescribed to my girlfriend but sitting unopened in a drawer) which, had I used it, would have cleared up the problem a treat. However whenever I see the words “topical corticosteroid”, I think of Lance-fucking-Armstrong and can’t use it. So I have to HTFU and, at best, use a simple moisturiser or chamois cream
So I’m still sore. But that’s not the thing that’ll kill me.
This week, the day after I complete the Quarq Power Trip Challenge, Strava again wants me to hit a goal on the bike – this time it’s 15 hours in the coming week. I could simply decline the challenge and ride in moderation, given that the opening race of my season is due for this coming Saturday. But rule 5.
So, tired as I was, and sore as I was, I was back on the bike this morning, wincing all the way and averaging roughly 5km/h slower than my usual commute pace.
In and of itself, that’s not the thing that’ll kill me
It’s all of it together – which combines to form a thing we call “cycling”.
That’s what’ll be the death of me.
See you after race weekend, folks, I’m off to prep the bike for a few more hours in the saddle.
