Training, i.e. The History of a Divorce

In retrospect I should have realized this was going to be a problem. 

Steve and I have our little ways. As do most couples that have been together for some time, To deviate is to court disaster.

And that, my friends, would be called hindsight. 

Ouch.

If someone was going to label us as the separate parts, I’d probably be called The Drive. You know, the one that pushes to do new things, to make moves, shake things up.

Steve (bless his heart. 😜) would probably be something more along the lines of The Brakes. The one who is slow to make changes, keeps things steady, stable. 

For some unfathomable reason the inverse is true when it comes to training. 

This became very apparent when we started training for our 10K.

Once we both got past the I-am-going-to-die period and were running 30 minutes straight I started to notice little…differences. 

I run steady. Find a stride. Pace. Then, if I have energy left at the end, I ramp up the last third or quarter of the run. 

Steve runs flat out. 

F.L.A.T. O.U.T.

Just call him the streak. Two thirds of the distance in he’s gasping for air and has to slow down.

Both methods work. Over the course of our training we both ramped up speed and distance, but our styles aren’t exactly compatible.

Still, shouldn’t have been a problem.

Except I left Steve in charge of our cycling training. 

One of those offbeat little quirks of fate due to my being particularly busy. I say offbeat as I never leave anyone else in charge of anything. 

I’m controlling. Sue me. 😝

Oh, boy.

Have I mentioned anywhere in these pages that Steve is 7 inches taller and 60 pounds heavier than my cute little self? If not, consider yourself informed.

He’s also much more athletic, and logged mucho bike time in his youth.

I suspect some of you perceptive types may see where this is leading. 

-First time out wasn’t too bad. I came back exhausted, but, hey, first time out.

-Second time out was not an improvement. 

-By the fifth time out I hated cycling.

-By the tenth I hated Steve. 

Rides became a labor of endurance. I was committed. I had donations! 

I’D BOUGHT A BIKE

We developed a ritual. At the end of each ride I threatened to refund all donations and never saddle up again. Steve would nod, make supportive noises, agree. 

(He would have agreed to anything after a couple of weeks. 😂)

But it was a lie, and we both knew it. No way was I going to let cycling win.

-I endured. 

-I dreaded every upcoming ride. 

-I waxed lyrical on the agony of each individual outing.

-I got…well, let’s go with grouchy.

THE BONK HAPPENED

(To be recounted shortly!)

It marked a turning point. I noticed a couple of behavioral changes.

I began to wander around and talk to myself. More, I mean. I already talk to myself. Kinda a lot.

I began to…plot. 

I mean, this was, clearly, all Steve’s fault.

Divorce started to look attractive. 

1. I could live alone. 
2. I could cease having conversations where the other party wasn’t listening.
3. I could live in a house where people wiped out the microwave after each use.
4. I could ban all bikes from my vicinity.
5. I COULD HAVE SOLE CONTROL OF THE THERMOSTAT

*cackles evilly* 

Oh, yeeeeeees. Once the deed was done. (The deed being the MS150.)

(It’s just possible there may have been other things I was plotting. Things which I will not be committing to paper. Or ever tell a living soul. 😳)

The knowledge that escape lay on the not too distant horizon kept me moving. 

Barely.

Remember those different training styles? 

About three months in we realized pace was the problem. I was spent by the mid-point. Facing a two hour return ride exhausted was demoralizing.

We made adjustments.

They helped.

There’s a moral here, people. 

DO NOT DRIVE YOUR WIVES PAST THEIR THRESHOLD OF ENDURANCE

I’m still not entirely convinced he wasn’t secretly trying to kill me.… 

Divorce has been deferred. 

For now.

But I am watching him….




Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

I…Beg Your Pardon?

I am a practical sort of person. One who realizes life occasionally tosses out curve balls.  In other words, having now reached the giddy heights of middle age, I am not easy to surprise.

• Mankind’s inhumanity to man? I am inured.
• The destruction of civilization as we know it? Meh.
• The current fashion trend of pairing bike shorts with blazers? 😂

That said, there were a couple of things I was not entirely prepared for when we started cycling. 

One of those was the importance of an anatomical area not thought of since childbirth. The ischial tuberosity. Otherwise known as -

Sit bones.

My reintroduction to these small but integral little bony protrusions came about after a complaint on my part. 

(Okay, okay, so it might have been a round of complaints.)

My grievance centered on the grave discomfort of my, errr…nether regions, after a ride.

Steve, ever the trusty researcher, hopped on the computer to track down the source of my ire. Turns out those of the female persuasion tend to a slightly wider measurements between sit bones than men. A saddle commiserate with the distance between one’s sit bones is imperative to comfort.

(My saddle was too narrow. 😜)

Problem solved. Huzzah!

This led - as so many things do - to a conversation.

Steve: You need a new saddle.

Me: Okey dokey.

Steve: We need to get you measured.

Me: I…what?

Steve:  We need to get you measured.

*silence*

Me: What, exactly, are you proposing I have measured?

Steve: The distance between your sit bones.

Me: *raises eyebrow*

Me: And how, exactly, is that supposed to happen? 

Steve: They can do it at a bike store.

*more silence while I mentally picture various scenarios involving strangers and a tape measure*

Me: Ummm…Nope. 😳

I felt pretty good about my decision. I mean, the area in question would adjust with a little time.  Like muscles do after a workout. 

Right? 

My complacency lasted a few more outing. At with point I was willing to PAY to have some stranger measure my sit bones.

Gah!

I had to have them measured twice. 

Do not even ask….

* * *

MAMIL

Or.

Middle-Age Men in Lycra

This gets a bad rap. Undeserved, in my humble opinion.

Lycra is not a bad thing. If the body wearing it is nicely maintained, it can be, most definitely, not a bad thing. Middle-aged or not. 

However…. 

Lycra harbors one little known but quite serious hazard. At least little known to non-cyclists. 

This would involve the cycling bib.

For those not in the know, these babies are worn in lieu of cycling shorts. They have straps over the shoulders, rather like a pair of suspenders. This has the benefit of doing away with a waist band. Much more comfortable.

The danger here is that the lycra quality in bibs varies. Inexpensive bibs stretch thin under…duress. 

Sometimes very thin. 

Transparent, even. 

So. Is everyone here aware that cycling is done…commando?

Yes. You read that correctly. 

Com-man-do.

If you cycle, there is a distinct possibility that at some point in time you will find yourself riding behind a fellow enthusiast, who, for some incomprehensible reason has chosen to purchase cheap bibs. 

1. Someone not slim.
2. Someone hairy.
3. Someone whose posterior you have no desire in this or any other lifetime to peruse all up close and personal like.

Are you feeling me here?

ARE YOU?!?!

For the love of all that is holy.

DO NOT BUY CHEAP BIBS

The eyes on seven continents thank you.




Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum