We’ve all had those days. Days when everything seems to be going against us, when nothing works out quite right or unfolds according to plan. It may be one big piece not falling into place, but more often than not it is a string of minor occurrences that keep accumulating and never seem to cease. Although we might recognize what is happening, that the gods detailed to manage and oversee the smooth execution of our well-worn routines have gone for an afternoon espresso, remaining rational is an impossibility.
Because my job requires me to travel, often for weeks at a time, the luxury of relaxing into a daily routine is something I savor during the stretches in which I actually take up residence in my own home. Despite having to adjust to different patterns several times a year, I am, like my father, a creature of habit. This is why pursuits requiring extreme amounts of discipline to be successful fit me like a race cut jersey. This is also perhaps why when I’ve been treated to an extended stretch during which I keep an uninterrupted routine that a minor inconvenience becomes, to me, a tectonic shift, throwing me off balance and magnifying each successive incident.
I had one of those days last week. It began in small increments, time inching forward bit by bit. The morning commute took longer than usual, a morning rehearsal ran longer than advertised. A quick trip to the grocery to retrieve a necessary item for lunch became drawn out as my lane’s computer also decided to go for an afternoon espresso. Meal times had been shifted by more than an hour by now. The roofer arrives just before I finish lunch and mistakes me for a shrink, airing grievances related to his other clients, delaying my afternoon errand. Trying to do something nice for Molly, I make a trip to the wine store to fetch a bottle that was highly touted on the radio only to discover the store does not have it in stock. It is evening. On the way home, my car decides it is time for a drink. I choose to ignore its thirst; I live right around the corner and am starving since dinnertime has now shifted 90 minutes later than usual. But before I can cook dinner, I must do the pile of dishes in the sink, delaying the meal even further. It was one of those days.
However, amid this string of unfortunate events—somewhere between the roofer and the wine store—I got to ride my bike. Yes, my bike, my refuge. I was looking forward to the head-clearing capabilities of cycling to which I have become accustomed, yet sometimes even your solace, your sanctum, your escape from the world betrays you. Instead of being therapeutic, my ride gradually became an extension of an inauspicious day.
Since the end of my racing season I’ve begun my out of competition weight training program and I feel yesterday’s session in my legs. Though it is not noticeable in my power output or heart rate, my legs are tired, sapping my mental energy and taking away from the freedom I usually feel pedaling through roads that wind through the woods and horse farms of Baltimore County. Climbing, even at an easy pace, is taking a little more effort. I have to stand on the pedals more than occasionally. I’m finding it much too hot and humid for a late-September day. I become aware that my right shoe is a little too tight. Probably from the humidity. Damn humidity. My pedal stroke is not smooth, not supple. I’m not feeling the high of the top form I had just three weeks ago.
No matter. For some reason this hasn’t been my day but even through the haze rising from the road and filling my mind I do find one thing heartening: I got to ride my bike.
