After today's events and the resulting mental carnage turboing wasn't seeming that appealing, so I engaged Auntie Martha's 10 minute rule. 10 minutes of whatever it is and then review. Just 10 minutes and if it still seems a rubbish notion, bin it.
To be upfront that trick to encourage me to do my piano practise wasn't that effective when I was 12, but nowadays it works a treat to get me in my trainers or cleats.
So, capitalising on the cortisol, two hours of sweating then ensued. Cycling can be such a journey (even a somewhat stationary journey this month). At the start of the venture I so often have a cluttered, chattering mind bursting with post-work analysis, list-making, inner rantings and discussions. The bike on the turbo competes with it's own grind, tick, clank clank. On and on it goes. It's invasive and irksome. Yet there's this morphing into one as the minutes roll by, as paradoxically the mechanical hubbub seems to become a melodic pitter-patter and calmness in my mind is again restored. Until perhaps tomorrow that is.
The pistons are working hard and all this training seems to be paying off. I wouldn't say I've thighs to rival Chris Hoy quite yet but they should enable some reasonably comfortable gallivanting up and over the mountains of NZ at this rate.
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