One afternoon late last week I was out doing intervals on High School Road. There is a stretch there that is ideal for riding the dreaded one-minute interval, a distance short enough that requires riding flat out, yet long enough that the hurt builds to a cross-eyed crescendo in the last 15 seconds.
With the one minute interval there is no hiding. Either you are fit and can handle the high speed and general anaerobic abuse you throw at yourself or you cannot. For me, they are extremely hard to do and I only attempt them under two conditions: 1. When training for some specific goal, and 2. When I have enough fitness that I can complete six of them without my sixth one being 10% slower than my first.
The upside to these devilish things is that you end up with a measurable jump of explosive power and speed. Useful tools indeed if you are trying to be a bicycle racer.
Each interval would end at the intersection at Occidental Road, with me turning right, passing the "Sebastopol Swamp" blueberry stand. Every time. And every time I would imagine cutting my session short and stopping for a pint of blueberries, how good they must taste.
Interval #5 in 1:15. I had to bribe myself into doing the sixth and final one, and do it well. I told myself if I could match my #5 interval time I would reward myself with a pint of blueberries.
#6 came and I was able to ride hard one final time. A burning smear to the finish. 1:14. Pleased, I warmed down and rolled to the fruit stand just as it was closing up for the day. One pint, $5. She put the berries into a paper bag.
Riding back to my office, one hand holding the bag open, I had a handful. As fantastic as you might imagine. Maybe better. Then I thought: It's just Gabe (my 12-year old) home tonight for dinner. We'll have fresh blueberries on vanilla ice cream for dessert. Okay, that means don't plow through the whole bag, just have one more handful and that's it, okay?
I reach down for my last handful and the bag is feeling pretty light. Wait, what? I look down at the bag and then notice the hole in the bottom just as the last two blueberries spill out. A quick check back shows a meandering trail of little dark spheres on the road marking where I had come from.
It's at times like these you just gotta laugh a little. And then try to find the moral of the story, to see if the anecdote can be elevated to fable status. So here's my takeaway:
"The only blueberries you really have are the ones in your mouth."
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