Hacked all night. Slept on the couch downstairs so I wouldn’t keep Lynn awake. Used to get this upper respiratory crap two or three times a year. Haven’t been sick in well over a year now. It’s strange, and a bit frustrating because other than the hacking, I feel okay. Energy feels good. Busting out of my skin to get back out and train. Yesterday, I couldn’t sit any more and went out for an easy pace, four mile run. It felt really good. Legs felt light and fresh after four days off. And it didn’t make me feel any worse, or any better. Today I rode 15 miles easy. As I write, still hacking. But it seems to be diminishing. I’ll kick it out over the weekend. Fourth of July weekend. Racine 70.3 looms two weeks from Sunday.
I long for the long ride. It’s my cave, my sanctuary. The 3am start, all tip-toe quiet. Roads stark empty. No sound but the hum of crickets and street lights, and the rush of air. Dark horizon lit by moonlight, dawn only a faint pink suggestion in the north east sky, cool mist floating in wispy blankets over the corn fields, and the rhythm of pulse, breath, cadence flowing in circles.
What the hell is up with the Red Wing Blackbirds? Aggressive little twits. Swear to God, I was being dive-bombed, hissed at, scouted, the entire 107 miles between Geneva and Tiskilwa. Is it my clothing? My bike? Am I unwittingly emitting some aggression inducing pheromone? Felt like I was starring in a remake of Breaking Away directed by Alfred Hitchcock.
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