Yesterday, I woke up and told myself that I was going to ride my bike farther than I ever have. I had a route in mind, yet I really didn't know how far it was, or how long it would take me. But in a way, it didn't matter, I just needed to get on the road bike, start peddling and not look back until my legs brought me home. So far this year, I've only been able to ride outdoors a handful of times, and even the hours I've spent on the trainer indoors haven't been for training. And that's the way I intend to keep it. Because if I am going to get better, to heal my inner wounds and smooth away the scars of trauma and grief, I have to know that when I ride it is for me, and not for the training plan.
When I was into the 4th hour of my ride yesterday, and the pain was dragging me down - tired legs, sore back, woozy head - I embraced it. I reminded myself as I peddled on into the lactate numbing fury, there is no physical pain that compares to the emotional heartbreak I've endured.
In the end, it was 75 miles, in 4:35.
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