lactate test mark two

I woke up the first time this morning around four in the morning. Ghosts of my old life were outside hooting at one another and raising hell and presumably kissing each others faces, although that part is quiet and doesn’t keep one awake.

I considered stomping outside in my boxers and undershirt and doing a little theraputic yelling and possibly getting in someone’s face, but everyone shut up and I fell asleep again before I got too worked up.

The second time I woke up, it was time to do work. My alarm let rip an earnest electronic fart around 7:20 and rattled me awake. I stripped down and put on cycling clothes and my heart rate monitor, which I refer to as my bra strap.

I got into my car which has the soul of a wild stallion due to a cracked air intake hose. It bucks like hell unless you baby it with the clutch. We herked and jerked down the road together and Benji Hughes sang to me about a mummy. It helped bridge the time until the heat started a timid gust from the vents.

I got to the gym early by about seven minutes, knocked on the door just in case someone was inside, and then retreated to my car and the warmness inside. I wrote a note to the universe via Twitter, and about that time my coach Tony showed up and got out of his car.

“Ready to abuse yourself?” he asked.

Boy was I.

The mission was to beat 210 watts. That was my previous best lactate threshhold output over the 42minute periods that Tony likes to torture cyclists with. You go as hard as you can for 20 minutes, then rest for two, then go like hell for another 20 and the average watts output are your number. I knew I could do better than 210, so I asked Tony if I could come in on my own on a Sunday and really go to town. He said okay.

The Tuesdays and Thursdays upon which I usually do my spin class at the house of quad pain and sweat known as ATS aren’t really good for testing my actual ability because the classes take place at a butt-early 5AM and I usually only manage to grab a few hours sleep.

I got onto the bike and warmed up for a few minutes. Tony put on the 07 Ironman Panama City dvd for me to watch so I could see other people in pain. I saw a beachside shack that I went to with my friends to get beach stuff on our last trip with a rider in front of it all hunched over and pedaling like hell. I pedaled like hell.

Once I got warmed up, I started the test. It’s hard to talk about what really happened after that because my brain shuts off, but I can tell you this. If you want to shut off your mind and really think about nothing at all, try endurance sports. All you can think about is when you get to stop.

After the first 20 minutes we reviewed my numbers and I rested. My avg was at 277. I was pouring sweat as though each of my pores were sharing a simultaneous “HOLY SHIT” and pumping for all they were worth.

“I like the look.” Tony said. Well, that’s something.

I was alternating pedaling seated at 250+ and giving the resistance knob a hearty twist and standing up for a good old fashioned mash down. I tend to stand up a lot on hills, although they say it’s more efficient to sit and spin it out in a lower gear. My teardrop muscles just above my knees were being very annoying about hurting.

The second 20 minutes I tried to continue at the level of the first and just couldn’t output the same numbers. The two minute rest in between the tests counts in the average, so my 277 avg for the first 20 fell to 250ish after my rest, and then to 244 or so.

Tony clicked buttons on the bike’s display. “Increase that number” he said. I pedaled. My ability to output power dwindled. I looked at the display and I had eighteen minutes to go.

It’s amazing how slow time can be at times like these. Tony walked away, leaving me and the resistance knob to conspire against my wattage output.

My strategy was to twist the resistance knob down a bit to catch my breath, then wound it way up and stand up and mash, then back down again to rest. The amount of time that I could stand up and mash, however, was getting shorter and shorter and the rests were getting longer, but I was nearly done.

After a good long rest at around 200 watts, another cyclist joined me on the bike next to mine. I saw Phil Ligget appear on the screen in front of us, commentating on the Ironman race.

“I didn’t know Phil Ligget ever came stateside,” I commented to my neighbor, with about five minutes to go.

“Maybe just for that race..” he said.

I immediately realized that I had made a mistake. Tony heard me talking without vomiting and came over to wind up my resistance knob and goad me. The last few minutes were hell and I wanted to die many times, but I ended up with 235 watts instead of my previous 210.

So, that’s 235 watts average output over 42 minutes, which I feel pretty good about.

“That’s better,” Tony said,”But you are a 250 man.”

Hopefully I won’t ever have to do another one of these tests, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I will. I’m going to bring a poisonous cobra with me in the pocket of my cycling jersey so I can throw it on the ground, leap off my bike onto it, and either get bitten and die or at least appear to be a hero.

Anything to stop pedaling.