I leave a two euro coin for [chocolate] emergencies in my pocket but not enough for the above goodies, keep my kit and carbon rocket in the car and change quicker than a mother-in-law's mood. There's always choices out there of what lightning session to do, be it torque, St. Bernard's or sprints. But what I do is not the point. Its the why. 30-40 minutes of escape may only be an insignificant session to a 15-hours-a-week-great-white-hope... but for me to manually disengage my work gears and engage my inner Mesolithic man instead keeps me alive. I need that sweating, grunting, all-out hunter-gatherer time to achieve a number of outcomes....Letting off steam for example. Everyone has stress. Mine doesn't come from work or the wife and kids but I do still need to clear the mental cogs and let it out. My poor SCOTT is a great listener.
And what about that base instinct all men have, one step up from dragging our fists on the ground? That beating-your-chest, crazed, glazed-over rage that is in our DNA? These days it is deftly hidden by man-bags, after-shave, I-phones and metrosexualism. But its still there, and wants to get out too. I let it off it's feral, musky leash in a tunnel of creatine phosphate pain that I call training.
And there's another reason. I am a paid-up member of the Anti-Man-Cave, Turbo and Rollers League. I don't want to go indoors, twist my gut while whirring like a dairy and come out staggering, fighting for my life.[ Or the light switch anyway.] No offence meant, I mean those that do Zwift are way fitter, it just is not my scene. Everyone to themselves. But I ain't a cycling grizzly that takes it's electrolytes, gels and CYCLING magazine underground for five months. Give me daylight. Give me a road. In fact, give me five minutes and I'll be ready!
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