Over my three day weekend, I rode 111 miles on my bike, spread over three days. The second day was 47 miles of pure hell and head winds; by the time I got to day three, I just wanted to sleep late and say fuck it. But I got up and did another 39 miles anyway.
I was told, “I admire your dedication.”
I don’t know. Maybe it’s dedication to a certain extent. I am trying to train up to ride a full century (100 miles) this year – more on that at a later date. But I don’t feel like it was dedication then, or when I drag my tired ass out of my house and to the gym.
It’s fear. I’m afraid of losing my forward momentum.
I do like what I do, most of the time. Otherwise I wouldn’t do it at all. But there are days when I just desperately wish to sit on the couch and watch Hulu. But then fear drives me out of the house. I keep thinking about how easy it is, to skip a day, and then another day, and then suddenly I can’t go up a flight of stairs without getting out of breath again. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’ve struggled so much to get myself rolling at this speed, and I know precisely how easy it is to lose that.
I guess it comes down to Newton’s first law, like will is a physical instead of mental thing. A body at rest tends to stay at rest. A body at motion tends to stay at motion. I’m terrified of becoming a body at rest again.
Maybe I should start just planning out recovery days.