I’m opening this post with another seagull picture. It was refreshing to observe a kid who hasn’t lost a sense of awe towards the natural world. I was also tickled, as was the seagull, by the kid’s excellent fashion sense.
So, you like seagulls, kid? Wait until one of them steals your breaded oyster burger or shits on you, both of which I’ve experienced.
Life’s full of disappointments, and seagulls are one of them.
Yesterday marked the first race of the year with the RIOT ladies. The numbers put out by my heart were more impressive than my legs. For 45 minutes, my heart averaged 171 beats per minute and peaked at 183. Last month, the RIOT ladies discussed heart rates in the #Health Discord channel. Several ladies shared tales of setting off alarms while in hospitals because their resting heart rate was so low.
“OMG! SAME!“
“Me too!”
“Yeah, I had to tell my doctor, ‘don’t worry, I’m a cyclist.'”
The results of each Zwift race list athletes’ average power, weight, height, and heart rate. (I shall use a race I did exceptionally well in as an example.) My power numbers, relative to the other racers, are often in the upper range. But so is my heart rate. It just so happens I have the heart rate of a hamster on coke.
Yesterday’s 171 beats per minute was even higher than usual. Those two weeks off my bike did not serve me well! Perhaps I should have dug through Zoée’s crate of fitness equipment for that jump rope.
I don’t believe in making New Year’s resolutions: I prefer to start on my goals ASAP. I’d sourced the ladies of RIOT for ideas on how to stay active off the bike, and several of them gave me the answer I was dreading: running.
For years, I’d been steadfast in proclaiming my dislike for running. Perhaps it stemmed from being forced to do those Monday morning runs in grade 8 PE even after returning from a bout of bronchitis because I hadn’t procured a doctor’s note for the teacher. Apparently, the coughing fit that lasted the whole period wasn’t convincing enough for Ms. Wust-Kenney. This was 28 years ago.
On December 28th, I set out for my first road run (one that doesn’t involve chasing a bus or trying to be punctual for an appointment, anyway). I thought I’d keep it sensible with a 30-minute run, as going hard in any new fitness endeavour is a recipe for failure. I based my route on whichever sidewalk had the fewest people, which produced an almost swastika-like route on Strava. Not once did I need to stop to catch my breath. My running form likely needs work, but my coked-up hamster heart rate had me hit 6km in that half-hour.
“I’m doing great!” I thought.
On December 29th, I had a rude awakening, my legs almost buckling as I got up from bed. Even my well-trained quads were searing. The 1.5km walk to and from the grocery store that morning was nearly too much to handle. Pre-enfeeblement, I had the idea of spending the day walking to my favourite eyewear shop, about 10km in all, to see if I could refresh my look for 2026: yes to the new glasses, but no to the walk.
Walking remained a challenge for the rest of the year. I didn’t get a second run in until January 4th, which meant I packed my running shoes for just two runs. Still, that was twice as much use as my swimwear got. Along with the previously hyped topics of power washing and nudity at Timmies, I’ll need to explain my reasons for skipping the pool in the next post (or maybe the one after that). I have another race with the RIOT gals tomorrow morning and need the sleep!
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