Adventure: KION Aminos

The time was 5:15 AM and my Garmin registered my “body battery” at a whopping 27 out of 100. “Essential Rest Day,” was the warning. My sleep was good, thank you Rogue Origin CBD, registering at an 81 out of 100 with continuous, deep sleep over a roughly seven hour period. This sleep is the best sleep I’ve had in my entire life, and it’s new to me. Historically, I’ve been a terrible sleeper, until now, and I finally realize the impact that less-than-optimal sleep has had on me over the decades.

I made coffee in the darkness and prepped my book and journal for my morning session.

There was a stillness I find essential. A faint bark from the neighbors dog, the baaa baaa of sheep crossing a meadow, the high pitched yip of the coyotes that had been active for the past few nights, and the beginnings of a cacophony of birdsong. Because it was still dark, I moved to the couch. The Great Hummingbird War of 2024 was building on the patio. The shrill of the Rufous turning on and off again as the male and female established their daily dominance.

I wrote the date in my journal, and my location, then left the pen in the depression between pages. I opened my book and disappeared into the world of phosphorous. As I read pages and made notes the sky began to slowly move from black to blue. The outlines of trees, the van and the handlebars of the Honda slowly emerged from the dark. There was no wind, and this where the problem began.

No wind. Having no wind created a conflict in my mind. I had not taken a rest day in ages, something the Garmin could easily suss out, and my initial plan was to simply do my workout routine but forego any run, bike or hike. I already had plans for the following day, plans that included river swimming, birding and a bit of fly fishing, so a rest day was not a bad idea. I would triple down on my Blurb work, film work, and prep for the Japan workshop.

As the sun crested the Sangres, I knew I wasn’t going to take a rest day. Winter will be here soon, so days like this, near perfect some would say, are a gift that need to be celebrated. The urge to go, to feel the double barreled burn of both leg and lung was too much. I would just do an easy spin. Ya, that’s it. An easy spin. In fact, I’d start on the road and aim for Zone 2 for the entire ride.

I made her coffee, something I have been doing for four years straight because if you want to see how a simple gesture can mean SO much to someone, well, start with coffee prep. I then snuck into the bedroom to snatch my riding kit. The door sticks, so although still asleep, she was alerted to my presence. She mumbled something about her grandmother and a casino gambling binge, but before I could answer, her quiet snores began to echo off the white walls.

Sunscreen, buff, sun sleeves, bib, jersey, helmet, gloves, sunglasses and two bottles, one with Scratch Labs and one with straight water. A gel of some sort in my bag on the top tube. Rear and front lights charged. Tires topped off, chain lubed. The earthen driveway hard packed after a late afternoon deluge the day before. The air smelled clean and crisp. I was alone.

I began the climb out of the neighborhood. At 7,000 feet it’s easy to go too hard too fast then pay for it later in the ride. I paced myself and found my cadence. The light pierced backlit through the trees, highlighting the absolute deluge of diversity the insect world. Houses dotted the tops of the surrounding peaks. Monsoon rains had spilled massive slicks of sand and dirt across the road. Arroyos with bursted banks. The power of water in parched land.

My mind began to both wander and centralize. Some of my best thought comes from times on the bike, or running, where physically I’m suffering. The physical suffering triggers a mental hyper-focus I find hard to pin down anywhere else. A peacefulness perhaps, an inner world where only I am allowed. In and out of the saddle. My single speed shifting right to left and back again as I settled into the climb. Crossing the frontage road I continued on into the adjacent neighborhood where the climb takes a serious pitch up. Short, steep and just the thing to get the blood fully committed to the task ahead.

The next seven miles were nearly all downhill. Out Old Las Vegas to the 285, a high speed burn route for Texans returning from breaks in our cooler parts. Everything felt remarkably good. My C5, C6, and C7 vertebra had mostly kept me off the bike since May. I had low expectations. Just enjoy. The sun crept higher and the wind stayed down. The shoulder of the 285 was wide and clear. A roadie flew past. Work trucks rumbled by with low growls of Cummings and Duramax, their residue of diesel in my nostrils reminding me of childhood on the ranch.

As I came to the trail back toward town I looked at my Garmin to see a reading of fourteen miles. Nothing. But I felt good. Really good. I mean really damn fine. For me, feeling fine can mean a variety of things. After five years of Lyme Disease, an illness that tore me down to my core then rebuilt me in a new, more fickle model, feeling good often comes with an invisible price. Feeling good can often be the precursor to total fallout. A reversal of all things good. A flat spin, impossible to pull out of. But this day felt different. This day I felt invincible.

I hit the single track and began picking lines through the ruts and rocks. My 2.35 Mezcals floated over the soft spots and dug in as I attacked the short, pitchy climbs. I began to notice that my quads felt unusual. Typically, at the top of these climbs I would feel the all too common leg burn, but not only was there no leg burn, there was nothing but a feeling of total, endless power. “Take it easy, take it easy, Zone 2 remember,” I said to myself. Another fifteen miles to go, all on dirt, all uphill.

As I rode the route I’ve done countless times before, I allowed my mind to return to my creative life. Page layouts, photo edits, writing practice all pinged and ponged around causing me to smile as I rode. I slowed for dog walkers and fellow riders. This was perfect. This was why living here is so magical. This was everything good about the world right in front.

A few miles in, I noticed another rider on the trail ahead. Gravel bike, matching kit, fit. Why was I gaining on him? This person looked to be a far stronger rider than I, so I slowed as I came up on him. “I’ll catch my breath and let my legs recover before I pass him,” I thought to myself. But the realization came. “I don’t need to catch my breath and my legs feel better than they ever have.” I waved, said hello, and flew by.

Something snapped. “This can’t be right,” I thought. “I can’t feel this good.” “I’ve never felt this good.” And then I took off. Full gas. Fu%$ it. Fifteen miles at Zone whatever. I was going to go until I was smoked, done, shut down. Like the domestic tour riders pulling at the front of the peloton. One minute they are pulling and the next they are going backwards. I wanted to find that place.

The recent rains added a tackiness to the hard pack. Just enough to allow me to carry speed through the corners. I’ve always been a decent bike handler. Years of BMX. Older brother and his friends pushing me, taunting me to do more, to go big. To try one more time. The rest of the world faded away. It was all in and all out. Corners, hills, downhills, sand, flicking the rear tire out to have it bite and propel me further and faster.

“On your left,” came the alert. Another rider passing me, and this guy was a pro. His body was all leg, no fat. And his rig was a full-on gravel thing of beauty. His calves the size of my quads. His body position and power entirely evident as I tucked in behind to see what would happen. “‘What am I doing?” I thought. “Just let him go, this isn’t a race.” As I stayed a safe distance behind I realized I was not losing ground. In fact, I felt like I could gain on this guy. Me on a single and he on a 1x. I knew he wasn’t racing, and probably had no idea I was even there, but I wasn’t suffering any fatigue, and I still had another level I had yet to tap.

As the route pitched up and down and carved through tight, sandy corners, I began to gain on the guy. “You are an idiot, slow down,” I uttered to myself, but my body just kept going. Eventually, he turned and headed west while I took the right fork and headed back toward town. I crested the toughest hill of the route and my legs and lungs still felt fresh and new. This was new territory.

As my Garmin ticked past thirty miles I felt like I had one more experiment to do. Before I injured my neck, I was routinely doing interval training on the hills in my neighborhood. Full gas uphill for three minutes, then coast back down, turn around and do it again. I never paired interval training with a ride. Just a warmup and then attack. I would do sets of five, recover and then go again. It was agonizing. Complete leg and lung burn. But not on this day. After thirty miles I spun my bike at the bottom of the hill and went all in.

“Go, go, go,” I yelled at myself. “How can this possibly be?” I laughed as the hill pitched up and I gave everything I had. And I gave and gave and gave and gave. For three minutes I was out of the saddle, shifting my eyes from my legs to the road ahead. My breathing was loud and forced. I sucked deep on the inhales looking for that last ten percent of oxygen. I arrived at the stop sign at the top of the hill, far faster than I ever had. A driver in a white Chevy e-car looked at me with shock on her face. I must have looked half crazed. I waved and tried to act cool as she made a face and drove off.

I rode in circles saying “I can’t believe this.” “Is this how normal, healthy people feel?” “Will I ever feel this way again?” “Why am I feeling this way,” and this last question triggered my detective mode. Why? Why now? As I got back to the house I cleaned my water bottles and began to take off my salt crusted kit. “How on Earth can I replicate this,” I wondered as my wife began rattling off her schedule for the next ten days, and reminded me of an opening later in the day. I was lost in thought. And then I reached for the metal water bottle I carry all day and night.

I twisted the lid, took a long drink, and then it hit me. Amino acids.

That had to be it. Years ago, long before I got sick, I was a frequent user of amino acids, but for some reason I had gotten away from using them. But recently I read an article about people who don’t get enough protein, and the potential impact of supplementing with amino acids. “Oh ya, I used to love those things,” I thought. I also remembered that I loved the taste and having a slight flavor in my bottle makes it easier for me to hit my daily water goal. (Nothing specific here people, but I do live at high elevation in the high desert.)

So, I made an order of Kion Aminos. Mango. Because who doesn’t love tropical fruit? A week ago I began a two-bottle amino routine. Half a scoop and full bottle in the morning, half a scoop and full bottle at night. Didn’t think anything of it. Nothing. Other than loving how it tastes. This is the ONLY change to my protocol and the only thing I can think of that would have potentially made this difference. My diet is all over the place, but I am also camel-like in that I can go for long periods without eating anything. My wife is a vegetarian. I am a protein binger. I might eat six buffalo burgers in two days and then skip all meat for a month. Dinner might be a rice cake and spoonful of hummus. Lunch an apple. Breakfast, bullet proof coffee and smoothie. Most of the time, I feel better when I don’t eat. This probably doesn’t bode well for protein intake.

I am no doctor. I am no nutritionist. All I know is that what just happened is a total anomaly and makes me want to find the cause. So I can do it again and again. Call me greedy, but feeling good is good enough.

PS: This post was a self-assigned writing assignment created as a test for my future workshop students. This is based on a philosophy of one of my favorite writers. A time limit, and an attempt at making a mundane story interesting. This allows a writer to write anywhere at anytime, slowly linking small “sketches” into a semi-cohesive storyline.