Who knew that you could ride thousands of miles a year, climb hills hard enough to see stars, suffer like a dog to hang on in a crit, drag one last burst of energy out for one last sprint after laps and laps of surges and breaks, pull on your handlebars hard enough to make them creak like an old lady's ankles, bump with some of the scariest and sketchiest riders ever to grace a pack ... who knew that with all that ...
... you could still be soft? ... like a little pile of pizza dough? ... or a kitten? ... or a quivering mass of jellied flesh?
Apparently Alex knew, 'cuz every time I show up at the Hour of Power, he shows me over and over again just how soft I am -- with walking lunges, or circuits of terror, or the diabolical descending push-up/ascending situp routine. And every "morning after," when I can barely run the soap over my body for the pain in my "muscles," I repeat to myself:
"I am soft, but not for long... I am soft, but not for long..."
Thank you sir -- may I have another?
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2 comments:
If it makes you feel better, my inner thighs are a little sore today. Pain is the feeling of weakness leaving the body.
Kaiserhorse, I don't want to know that you're sore, I want to know that when I can do those walking lunges and other exercises as well as you, I *will not* become sore. So lie to me. Please. Tell me how good you feel.
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