LEST y'all think I'm poopoohing the benefits of my trainer sessions in the basement, I'm going to share a little nugget with you.
Yesterday I walked up the stairs. Normally. As in not hunched over, stiff legged and awkward. Just a normal, lahdeedah pace up stairs. Lots of stairs. All day long.
Normally, two days after a hill-filled race I would be all bent over and old lookin'. But not now.
Because I worked my a** off in the basement this year. And while I didn't smack the hills around on Sunday as secretly hoped, I certainly didn't need a week to recover from them either.
How about one day to recover.
And THAT, my friends, is a good thing.
So don't start worrying that this complicated relationship you've developed with your trainer in the belly of your home is for naught.
It's all good.
In only marginally related news, I was out looking for a "flat" course last night to do a recovery ride on. And since I can no longer claim frostbite risks for outdoors riding, I was on the road. And within a half and hour, I got an industrial sized staple directly in my back tire.
And what did I do?
I promptly called Mighty M.
I know, I know. I could have changed it, but it already needs to go into the shop because the tire isn't sitting properly in the wheel, so it goes thunkthunkthunkthunk the whole time I ride. Like a flat tire when I don't have one.
Until, of course, I did.
Rather than get greased up and dirty changing a tire that was going into the shop the next day, I decided for the rescue call instead.
Oh, and since you asked, lazy is spelled a-b-l-e.