My heart did 206bpm today. Somewhere between beating up nerds and being perpetually put in detention, I learned in middle school that your max heart rate should be your 220 minus your age. That puts my max-bpm at -14. If you're wondering how I'm still alive, I've got two words for you: Ginkgo Biloba. And I have a letter for you too: F (better known as my grade in elementary math). Now I'm not usually one for objectively analyzing performance. I either make the bike go fast or it weighs too much, isn't aero enough, or I'm drunk. I rode without a computer all of last season (which is probably why I sucked so much), but recently added a bit of dankness to the race rig and can now geek out everytime I ride.
This evening's ride took me to Hains Point. Tacking on a few miles beforehand in the commute, I was feeling a bit giddy getting out there and mixing it up with a packed crowd that included the likes of Big Red, Super Dave, and Colgate B. The thing I like most about riding at The Point is that I'm pretty much guaranteed to blow my wad and today was no exception. After a couple laps of similar intensity, I limped home with a bit of a headache and feeling a little queasy. I made it all the way to Theodore Roosevelt Island before I had to pull over and chill out for a bit. I was totally going to yak so I just took my time, breathing deeply and trying not to remember what I ate for lunch (a Chipotle burrito with everything). I burped a little and felt better but still a little green. As I was pitifully slouched over my bike, Big Red and his wife, Runner Blondie, rode by. "You gonna puke man?" he asks. I had a very ch'i-centering moment and told myself "Ok, you Idiot. Suck it up and ride the damn bike home THEN puke." I clipped in, caught up with the duo and made it home in one piece after stopping my 7-Eleven for a Cherry Dr. Pepper. Huzzah for not puking!
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