My spring romance with time trialing (in French “contre la montre”—literally “against the clock”) is over. After a less-than satisfying performance last month, I had a bone to pick with that 20k stretch of flat, fast pavement.
Yesterday I licked that bone clean.
With 90 cycling miles in my legs from the previous day, I really was testing my coach’s belief that “the true TT test is on fatigued legs.” Thankfully, with Saturday’s sunshine, great company, and pace line lessons from some of the local cycling glitterati, fatigue felt a lot more like fitness gains.
(And I learned something besides how to ride better in a pack: ladies, if you want to be absolved of any group riding sins, wear white shorts.)
Mark set us up so I could stare at the TT virgin’s rear.
Equipped with new booties and bars, I set off at 7:36:30 to cruise to the female victory, 28 minutes and 54 seconds later.
I went home spent and happy with my victor’s beer, dark chocolate, and gift card. When I went to receive my loot—chick-friendly red wine and milk chocolate—I politely requested the alternative, eliciting a chuckle from the crowd. Thanks, but this girl is fueled by hops and malt.
Photo courtesy of my fitter, Nestor Rodriguez from Studeo DNA.
Back in NoCo, our stomachs were growling and we hit up Angelo’s in Encinitas for one of their apparently gigantic breakfast burritos: Bacon, eggs, cheese, avocado, and hash browns wrapped up in one of those impossibly soft tortilla as big as my forearm for five bucks.
I am a changed woman. This place is something right out of an Archie comic. You can drive right through the middle of the building, or go inside, where you kind of just want to close your eyes while they make your food. But when it comes to the no-frills breakfast burrito, this place has stolen my stomach.
Once again, I can’t believe I’ve lived here for almost three years and haven’t had a So Cal breakfast burrito. So much food, so little time.
More calories than I burned, but who cares.
Another thing about the weekend that made me very happy was discovering the new, widened bike lanes through Leucadia. My friends and I finished our ride through the usual log-jam that is Cardiff to La Costa, but for a few precious miles, motorists actually heeded the new signs. Do I smell Denmark?
Courtesy of Nestor at Studeo DNA.
Racing usually amps me up for the rest of the day, but yesterday I crashed pretty hard around 1 pm. I tried to sleep, but I was too amped up. Triathlon-world problems, I know. I traded my swim in for a much-needed hot yoga session—the first in weeks—and listened to a sensuous Brazilian instructor tell me to open my heart and get friendly with my arms and love my body.
When it pushes me 25.8 mph on a bike, that’s a little easier to do.
3 thoughts on “contre la montre”