The day was warm, the hills were long or steep–sometimes both. And as I sped down one such hill–a series actually of downhills–I thought “what’s the point?” I had climbed and climbed and climbed all morning. And my reward was these downhills. But they didn’t feel like a reward. What’s the point of all the climbing, of all the hard work if I’m just going to go downhill at 30 miles an hour? Why bother going uphill at all? It’s so easy to go downhill. The hours of work is negated in minutes. It is so easy to lose elevation after fighting so hard to go so high. The downhills–which I usually enjoy–felt like failure.
Maybe it was because the roads were bumpy and every time I hit a particularly egregious bump at 30 miles an hour, I was reminded that I really needed to pee. Maybe I was dehydrated. Maybe I was just having a bad day.
I did snap out of it by the end of the ride. Perhaps it was all the recorded reality I was able to examine post ride: how far, how fast, how high I went; how many calories burned. Or maybe it was just the Twizzlers at the finish.