Storm's a-brewin'

I haven't blogged it, mostly because I didn't want to subject you to peevish ramblings and outright whining but since you asked...

If workouts were MAJOR rot, my attitude was worse. I was outrageously fatigued and unaccountably surly.

I walked half the run on the 26th, seriously contemplated getting off my bike and parking tush on the side of the road on the 27th, and repeatedly sucked water and otherwise flailed ineffectively about on the swim (that'd be the 28th).

Not to be outdone, the second half of the week consisted of the run that wasn't (I just decided not to go - 'cause first I'd have to put on my run clothes, then I'd have to tie my shoes, then pull back my hair then...) and a bike that went from a mapped 25 miles to a sad, sad 10. (at mile 10 I heard church bells tolling. This signified, I was sure, a higher message to STOP for God's sake!!! STOP!!!)

On Sunday, I drug myself from bed and went (oh, woe to the other tri-folks) for the team swim-bike-run "brick" session.

I managed to keep my whining to a minimum on the swim, but let fly on the bike.

Because I was humping along at the back of the pack, poor Trainer Bob ended up with my sorry self.

A lesser man might have run fast and sure for the hills, but not our guy Trainer Bob. In all honesty, I think it just may be some sort of sadistic code of coach's honor; you know, hang back with the last trailing tri-folk, the captain stays with the ship and all that.

To reward his stalwart devotion to the cause I sang him a shrewish tale of angst and sorrow (I'm thoughtful like that). I think I even cursed at him (I know - ME?!) when he cheerfully reminded me that we do 2 bike loops.

So, the second loop finds me gazing hatefully at my surroundings, (I mean, how dare the sky be so crystal, the trees so vivid a green), and choking on the crisp September air.

I am a wretch.

I think of those folks that would give anything for that chill and the technicolor of the day - I think of Evan, the teenage son of a fellow triathlete, his fight with Leukemia nearly over and I start to cry.

Now, I am not generally a crier; I don't do it well, or often, and quite frankly, had Trainer Bob not been discreetly riding my tail, I might have just tipped my bike over and given way to the "ugly cry", right there on the side of the road.

He was though, silently back there pedalling; so, I kept going.

He continued to be sage-like and quiet, a Yoda on wheels, until he asked if I had checked my resting heart rate recently.

No, I had not.

He said to do so the next time I woke. "If it is over 72 or so", he said, "don't train that day".

I made it through the rest of the bike, and thanks to Bob's tales of Triathlon Greats, through the run as well.

I even made it home and into bed before I slept 4 hours straight.

I checked my heart rate when I woke.

84.

I didn't work out on Monday.

The next morning - 72.

No training on Tuesday either.

6 AM Wednesday - 64 BPM.

I rode the rail trail with the littlest Stink to the ice cream shop.

Thursday I woke in what I can only describe as an Oz-like world. To say I sprang from bed and clapped my hands and declared the day ripe for a good bike ride might be a slight overstatement, but not by much.

It appears, (and I'm sure that some of you, more familiar with this sort of thing were on board long before now), that I was over training. Trainer Bob calls this "crossing over to the other side".

It is not fun, it is inexplicably debilitating and depressing.

I hope never to land my house there again.