Endurance

I try to do 40-plus miles any time I go biking, the better to keep old age at bay.  The closer my birthday gets, the more I try to do 60.  Yesterday, four weeks and change from that always-sobering event, I managed a mere 45 miles on the 606.  Wait for the humble-brag here—I was lucky to do that much.

The temperature was 90+ degrees, the skies were blue and the path offered nary a bit of shade.  A steady west wind of 15-20 mph made peddling a joy in one direction, murder in the other.  Usually, biking allows me to meditate.  I can rewrite a sentence in my head—provided I keep a lookout for pedestrians who think the yellow line is meant for crossing over—for hours on end or try to name as many members of the 1965 White Sox as a four-hour ride will allow me.  All I could do yesterday was focus on the task at hand and try to ignore how the heat insisted on radiating up from the concrete path like that.

I wonder if elite athletes face anything remotely like this, or does training kick in to get them through the event, without a thought or fear ever crossing their mind?  I kept thinking that I needed enough energy when it was over to lift the bike onto the carrier, or else somebody in Humboldt Park was going to ride away with a free Schwinn Varsity.  Really, doing stuff on the count of three works.  Then, I had to decide the best route home, expressway or boulevard.  Which one would minimize braking, too much of which could lead to sudden cramping in the legs?  My God, what if the air conditioning in the car breaks down?

Somehow, just 25 minutes after getting off the bike, I was back home, finding a way to lift my trusty Schwinn off the carrier and get it back into the basement.  After that, I made like a camel that had wandered into an oasis from out of the desert.  I drank till my hump was full.