I officially started the road season last Sunday.
It coincided perfectly with two late-season Nor’easters that dumped nearly two and half feet of snow on the ground.
Following Rangeley, I had taken the week off.
The entire week.
No transitional workouts. No colds or sicknesses that were double-counted as recovery. No crazy projects. No “fun” efforts that were merely disguised training sessions. It had been several years since I had taken that much time off and I expected my body to rebound almost immediately and my outlook to improve day-for-day.
Instead, by the end of the week, I was irritable, crawling out of my own skin, and itching for any workout, no matter how meager or minimal.
Sunday was an hour and half. I had fitted my cyclocross with full fenders and cycled the wet roads, the snow piled high up on the sides, through Weston and Wellesley. I wanted to keep going but it was the first day back and I was pacing myself, riding deliberatly slow and short.
On Monday, I squeezed in an easy hour in the late afternoon after work. The storm was coming and the skies turned cold and gray and the temperature dropped over the course of the ride.
On Tuesday it snowed. All day. I rode tempo intervals on the trainer and shoveled out.