Decompression

"Oh, no, you are not sending me to the test lab," I think as the project manager tells me that my assignment has changed. This lab is where the client is testing an application about which I know nothing. It’s not my project. How can I provide assistance when I don’t know conceptually what the application is doing, or the rules it is using to do it? But I am Crisis Girl, the one they bring in after a project meltdown.

Two long strides before I hit the lab door, I have adopted a genuine smile. It’s the second-best battle gear I own. Throughout the day of testing, I radiate positive energy, my best battle gear. First I encourage the testers to find ways to break the application. Then I help them understand and log the failures. I frequently have at least one tester waiting for my advice. My recovery comes when I quest for answers on another floor. I heave deep sighs as I bound up the stairs two at a time.

It is with unusual gusto that I throw on my cycling gear that evening, give the bike a cursory once-over, and roll out. I am headed down to my river. The negative energy, trapped inside me from the tempestuous day, spills into my legs, demanding to be used. Tonight turns into a tempo ride rather than the long, slow ride I had originally planned.

As my legs pound out a cadence that makes my heart rate soar, I fume over the project. I am so tired of the role I must take, and that I am powerless to change. I have tried to educate the project manager on ways to make testing run more smoothly. Each time he either ignores me or rushes to assure me that next time we won’t do it the flawed way we did it this time. Once, I would have believed him… I hardly notice my favorite scenery as I rehash the day.

With an insistent beep, my heart-rate monitor tells me something that my breathing would have, had I been paying attention: I’m riding too hard. I’m only five miles into the ride. I begin concentrating on what matters, the road before me. I shift down a gear.

Gradually, thoughts of work diminish as I settle into the harshness of the workout. Ten miles into the ride, I am reminding myself to drink regularly. In an attempt to distract myself from the acid building in my legs, I admire the scenery of trees a mere week away from peak color. As I approach the bend in the river where the heron often hunts, I search the cattails. My wheels hit a pavement changeover. I navigate the gravel washed over the bumpy road, climbing the gentle rise and still paying more attention to the river than to the road. The bird rewards me for my efforts, and I stare at it until the bend once more hides it.

By my 15-mile turnaround point, my work-related anger has evaporated like the sweat from my body. It would be a gorgeous day for the 50 miles I had planned, but I’ve got a great average going. I waffle about whether to settle into a distance pace and add miles. No, the average is a carrot I can’t resist. I will contend with a gentle headwind, but I also have the benefit of home being at a lower elevation than this point. Although I have been working hard, I have a few heartbeats more to spare thanks to my earlier correction.

I mentally gird myself for this new battle as I step up the cadence. Word games will help me keep it up, fight the burn. Sometimes it is associations, each word in time with every other downstroke of my right leg. The words spin out easily: "Breathe, stroke, ride, hard, silly, rabbit, run, ouch, twit, pain." I tap into the strength of their rhythm. At other times, I repeat a mantra over and over to myself, even though today’s speed does not fit it: "Slow and steady wins the race, stroke by stroke you know your pace."

I hit mile 28 and begin pouring out my laughably small energy reserve. My imaginary finish line, the beginning of the construction zone at mile 29, awaits me. With perhaps a bit too much pride, I watch the average climb a tenth. I had lost two tenths after the turn, but even down a tenth, I am pleased. This just became my best solo average for this distance.

After a mile cool-down, I grab a handful of grapes from the fridge and return to the porch. Across the street are the neighbor boys, who so carelessly leave their own BMX bikes strewn in the grass like large, metallic leaves. Shh, listen. That’s a cardinal, calling from the sugar maple. Hard as I try, I cannot spot the bird in such wonderful camouflage.

I chew the grapes one at a time, savoring their sweetness. Gently, I prod my quads, my calves. After I finish a few chores and eat dinner, I will head to the community center’s whirlpool to soak away the pain. I stretch out on my back, knees bent and feet flat on the porch. An irritated vertebra pops back into alignment. Relief. I stay in that position longer than I need to, appreciating my total exhaustion.

At that moment, if you asked me why I went out so hard, work wouldn’t enter my mind. My ride gave me exactly what I needed.