The calf strikes again

You'd think that at my age I would have learned a few things.  I was a track athlete in college with solid coaching.  I learned about strength training and the importance of warming up, and not over doing it. But there I was, in the gym on the treadmill doing intervals.  I was with my lovely wife and we were side by side doing a minute of high intensity with a minute rest.  I was cranking the speed up a little more each time.  On the 10th or so interval, I cranked it up to 12 mph and was cruising along, enjoying how smooth and fluid I was running.  I imagined that the other people in the gym were turning to admire my graceful form.  Heart 'Magic Man' was cranked on the iPod and I could barely stifle a self satisfied smirk when....'ping'....it was my calf.  OK, maybe it didn't actually make a sound but, in my memory, I could swear there was a ping.  My calf was pulled.

I have a history of long recovery times when it comes to calf pulls or tears.  Long as in 6 months...or even a year.  It's always the right calf.  Maybe it's never recovered from the first bad tear.  As I limped at a slow walking pace on the treadmill, my wife casting worried glances my way, I suddenly found 'Magic Man' to be annoying instead of rockin'.  I turned the volume down as I struggled to let this sink in.  I'd pushed it too hard.  I wasn't ready to run that fast.  Heck, I hadn't been running much at all lately.  I'd spent all of my time on the bike getting ready for the racing season.  Now I was lame.

This came on the heals of a week of travel with no bike, followed by a week of stomach heaving, feverish sickness.  What makes this all the more difficult to deal with is that I had gotten myself in pretty good shape throughout the winter.

With the calf not making much improvement, I started riding my commute again.  Yes, it ached, but it wasn't getting worse.  At least I was getting some cardio in, and I was taking it easy.  As the day of the Estacada time trial approached, I agonized over weather or not I should race.  At the last minute, I signed up.   As I neared the start house, I downed a bottle of noticed everyone had water bottles.  So I started asking folks if it was 10 miles or 20 miles.  It turns out it was over 20!  It was 10 point something out...and another 10 point something back!!  OK, well, unwatered, I set off.  Within the first minute I knew that I had damaged the calf.  Favoring the leg, and limited by my lack of cardio fitness, I rode on, determined to finish and perform respectably.  I did end up averaging just over 19 mph.  I would have been happy with that, given the hills and the strong winds, if everyone else hadn't been so much faster.

A crisp winter solo ride

I skipped the group ride with the club yesterday. I feel bad, and guilty about that. Normally, I look forward to the rush of riding at high speed in a pack, and the sprint for the old abandoned feed store. At 42 years old, I have a plodding, middle aged stride when I run. But on the bike, in a paceline, I'm still somewhat powerful and fast gliding along at 25 miles per hour, with the whir of gears and chain, the pavement flying by, concentrating on the wheels around me, reading the movements of the other riders. But yesterday, I just wasn't feeling up for that. Instead, I went for a solo ride.

It was cold for Oregon. 30 degrees. But it was a rare dry day, so there was no ice at on the valley floor. I was planning to climb into the surrounding hills and wondered if there was snow and ice up there. I added a layer of fleece between my jersey and Gore Bike Wear shell in deference to the temperature. The rest of my standard winter riding gear, full length leg warmers, neoprene Seal Skinz socks and shoe covers, and a pair of Pearl Izumi cycling gloves, and a soft cotton balaclava under my helmet.

I had no group to meet by any specific time, so I went over the bike a little more carefully. There was a squeaking in the drivetrain on the last commute home, so I cleaned the derailleur pulley wheels and oiled them again. Checked the tires, aired them up and adjusted the rear brakes.

Suppressing a last minute urge to retreat to the family room for an afternoon in front of the TV, I swung my leg over the bike and rolled down the driveway. I immediately felt the bite of the air on my face as my speed increased. The TV urge returned. I peddled on.

Soft peddling, with no unspoken group competition urging me on, I climbed the first gentle rise. Cresting the hill, I clicked into the big chain ring and, with the assistance of gravity and my still gentle muscle power, accelerated to 25 mph. I tucked in my knees and elbows and leaned forward, nearly resting my chin on the stem. The cold bit in a bit more fiercely, slicing through the seam in the leg warmers like a knife, causing me to question my resolve to ride yet again. I remembered that I left my cell phone on the counter and realized that if I had a blowout, or a broken spoke, I could be stranded for some time. I thought about going back to get the phone, but I peddled on.

Leaving the suburbs behind, I started spinning up the first rural hill. With my muscles loosening up, I tried a higher gear and felt the gentle sting in my legs immediately. I dialed the cadence back just slightly and concentrated on being smooth. My breathing and cadence fell into a 'just above comfortable' rhythm. With the traffic left behind, there was no sound but the wind passing by my ears, the tires rolling over the pavement, my breathing, and the drivetrain. As the grade increased, I began to warm and no longer noticed the temperature. I had entered the happy zone and all doubts about being committed to the ride vanished. As I turned onto the steepest part of the ride up Chehalem Mountain, I geared all the way down and searched again for the steep climb rhtym, which came quickly. I have a bit of a masochistic enjoyment of the slower, push pull climbing cadence just below my anaerobic and muscular threshold. Dancing on that razor thin line is a mental as well as physical challenge; gauging the grade, the distance to the top, my fitness, how I'm feeling that day, and metering the power appropriately all so that I'll have enough in the tank to return home. I chugged along at 7 to 9 mph, past vineyards, alpacas, and Christmas tree farms until I reached the upper reaches of the mountain where the grade mercifully slackens to about 4% and I spun the bike up to 13 mph or so and sat up just a bit, stretching my shoulders. Thankfully, there were only patches of snow, and the roads seemed devoid of any ice.

The road rolls along the top of the mountain for a couple of miles with one final push to the summit where it plunges in a narrow, twisting fashion towards the town of Scholls. The descent starts off straight and steep for about 400 meters on a bare and exposed mountain top, enabling a rapid build up of speed. I tucked into my most aerodynamic position and resisted the urge to squeeze the brakes. The narrow road is steeply crowned, and feels more so on skinny bicycle tires at 40 mph. It sweeps gently to the left, but requires full concentration at this speed. The heat of the climb evaporated in less than a second as I was assaulted by 40 mph windchill. Tears welled up in my eyes from the cold air swirling around my glasses as they swept the road for gravel, sand, black ice, pot holes..anything that might mean disaster. I kept up the speed as long as I could until the tighter twisties on the lower half of the mountain forced me to brake. I carved and tucked, braked and accelerated my way to the bottom of the mountain, profoundly chilled and exhilarated at the same time. As the road turned upward again, my legs, chilled and stiffened by the long cold descent, began working again, warming up before hitting 10 miles of rolling terrain back home. And to think I might have stayed home to watch TV.

A return to biking, a year and a bit later

I've logged over 3000 miles on my trusty Trek US Postal bike since I posted last. I've gone through a few tires, I've broken spokes, wore out a couple of chains, and replaced the Ultegra shifters as the internals wore out. I've replaced more brake pads than I care to count, primarily due to the fact that I don't clean them after the really rainy, gritty rides. Speaking of rain, I've ridden countless rainy commutes, since I live in gloomy Beaverton, Oregon. I've ridden a few commutes at 8 degrees. Why not? I've found remote country roads through Oregon wine country I didn't know existed. I've climbed gorgeous mountain roads that made my heart beat like a jack hammer,my lungs ragged, my throat raw, my quads scream in pain, and my spirit soar with exhileration. I've descended these mountains at near 50 miles per hour, eyes watering from the wind, the sweat accumulated during the climb drying too rapidly, chilling me, painfully, gloriously.

I joined a bike club and started training on the velodrome with a fixed gear. I rode with the team on training rides, hanging onto the lead group during town sprints until it was just the last few riders, and finally falling off, legs having gone to muscle failure, and enjoying the beer after.

And finally, I've lost weight. 19 pounds so far! From 217 pounds to a current weight of 198.