Drill(ing a massive hole in my head)

Last year, my triathlon season was ALL ABOUT FUN.

Fun little 1000 meter jaunts in the pool. (How cool am I? Can you believe I just did that?) Long bikes out to Lancaster and back, through pretty farm country and at my own pace. (Those first hills are hard...good thing they're not all the way...) And a slow, but sure, gradual increase in my jog. (Yes, my jogs.)

Ah, yes. Triathlon bliss.

(ahem)

Enter Ironman Year...stage left.

(blink, blink)

I totally expected the volume increase. I TOTALLY got that. I even expected the higher frequency of sessions -- two sessions a day? Bring. It. On.

But I didn't expect the drills.

Oh. My. Goodness.

Last night, I had two drill sets for the bike. Okey, dokey folks. No problemo. Just hop up there and get my game on. And I did for the first one...I made it through just fine, but good grief was a sweating. Oh. Yeah. Pounding away like my run intervals...feeling a tad bit studly. So this is what they were talking about! Alright, I can do this.

So, time for a little one-legged spinning. Yup, I'll just unclip this one here...and, um...okay, there...I can balance it right up, yup, right there. Okay, round and

WHHHAAAA???

Um, it seems that I CAN'T SEEM TO GET MY LEFT LEG UP AND OVER ONE LOUSY CYCLE!! No. It can't possibly be this hard. I can't possibly be this weak. No way, Jose. I must be doing it wrong.

(Um, how could I be doing it wrong? Come on, bonehead. You turn the pedal in a circle. A circle. Come on...try it again.)

So I grunted and groaned. Sounds came out of me that were NOT HUMAN. I finally realized why they sell sweat guards for your trainer. My hands started cramping because I was gripping the aero pads for dear life. And I cussed. Cussed like a trucker. Cussed like a trucker who got six flats in the middle of a snowstorm in a cell-free zone.

I herked and I jerked. I slowly started to find a rhythm (nowhere NEAR the true definition of rhythm). I focused and watched my way through each stroke until I had some semblance of a cadence.

And I did 20 minutes of 30 counts left, 30 counts right, 30 counts left, 30 counts right.

And. So. On.

________________

People, I'm cool with admitting limitations. I bring self deprecation to an art form. I don't even take compliments all that well.

But I hate not being able to do something.

And now I'm pissed.

I'm pissed at drills. I'm pissed and they should know to WATCH THE ** OUT. I've got your number, you bastards. I'm going to take you to task ever single chance I get. I'm going to intervals and closed fist drills and one-legged spins and step ups until you bleed or I fall down...which ever comes first.

I've got your number.
I'm coming
Watch.
Out.