When I was younger I never fully grasped the idea of maintenance workouts. I was unruly. “Maintenance?” “You dusty old coots, what the heck are you talking about?” Well, let the fifty-one-year-old version of me explain. At fifty-one, my body is pondering retirement. Thinking about places like Boca Raton or Leisure World while my brain is still thinking about keg stands and beer pong. Somewhere in the middle is my heart. Confused, blackened like a good snapper fillet.
Maintenance rides are about NOT going backward. At this age, I fall OUT of shape much faster than I ride into it. So, I have to keep the water at bay. These rides are like sandbags before the CAT5 hits your childhood home leaving you with nothing but a foundation and slag pond for a neighbor.
For me, maintenance is 20-30 miles, depending on time, and average to high output. I know the distance. I know my body. I know my schedule. If I have five conference calls in the afternoon, normal these days, then I’m going twenty and at average pace. Two calls spaced out over the day and I’m going thirty and much harder. Something big that day? Yoga only. And if I had to choose I would always take yoga over the bike. Thankfully I don’t have to choose at this point.
Now, today was quite special because I fell over and landed HARD on my ass, shoulder and hand. As I exited a deep gravel area onto the pavement I noticed a woman walking with her dog. Coyotes, normally skittish around humans, were trying to eat her dog while she was standing right there, and it was not a small dog. I looked, got distracted, got swamped in deep gravel and fell over without being able to unclip. It hurt. I have an icepack on my neck. I don’t feel stupid, yet. I’m still stuck on how calm the coyote looked.