Solo

Pain, I've decided, is best experienced in solitude.   This thought occurred to me as I peddled solo back up Highway 218 last night, having left the group ride at Bixby, with vague excuses and assurances that, yes, I was fine heading back alone.   "I'm not feeling well," I said.   What I meant is that thing you can never really say in a ride like this, that my body was done and I could not, for the night, continue at the pace the others had set.   Could barely, if truth be told, continue at all.  Despite my chiropractor's helpful assurances just an hour before that I wasn't going to do any damage to myself, each spasm of muscle in my low back convinced me that I was at the limits of what I could ask of myself.

So, alone I went, peddling harder than I needed to under the assumption that it was better to get it over quickly.   I had prescription meds with me, but I have a rule about taking meds for trips shorter than two hours.   Foolish, maybe, to stick to such an arbitrary cutoff with shooting pain running through my spine and leg, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.   Strangely, the ride got easier once I gave up the pretense of trying to keep up with the group.   I wasn't really going any slower, but somehow the road passed under me with more ease than it had just a few moments before.

Alone, you see, I was free to distract myself any way I chose.  I would concentrate on my breathing one moment, and the next break out into an impromptu rendition of whatever pop song was going through my head at the time.   With the rumble of passing semis and cars as my accompaniment, I sang Pink's "Try", belting out half remembered lyrics in between gasps for air.
 


Even when I wasn't able to distract myself, it was easier to be in pain alone, because I could embrace it, if I needed.   There was no need to put on a good face or try to be brave.   I was free to gasp and moan, and even cry if that was what was necessary.

I got home, finally, exhausted, but somewhat pleased with myself for having made it home under my own power.  Once home, I grabbed my ice packs and Flexeril, and proceeded to make myself one with the couch for the rest of the evening.   The pain subsided, ushered away by the cold burn of ice and a sleepy haze brought on by the muscle relaxants.

Pain, to some extent, is the nature of the game when you start talking endurance sports.  It's not a comfortable thing we do, pushing the boundaries of body and mind to shave a few seconds from a PR.  I suppose it is impossible to tell, really, where you sit in relation to someone else in terms of tolerance.   I would like to think I'm not a giant pansy, but who knows?   Maybe everyone reading this thinks this sounds like their normal ride.  I hope not.  I'm still holding out for that elusive nirvana of a pain-free back and strong legs.   In the meantime, sometimes it'll be easier to just ride alone.