I've been focusing on riding this summer, but this afternoon I had somewhere to be and I figured I could go for a run, because it takes less time. My USMC PFT times were generally about 23 minutes for three miles, and I know I've lost a step or two. But surely I could hold down my PFT pace for a single mile? That wouldn't be that tough.

So I gave myself a mile of a very slow jog to warm up, then put the pedal down. I was looking for "7:40 min/mile" on my fancy pedometer.

After a hundred yards I decided that "8:00" was a much more even number and would be close enough. I'd had PFTs of 24 minutes, that was still OK. And I even managed to hang on to that pace for a while. First my legs started to complain, but I brought to mind the mantra of legendary professional cyclist Jens Voigt, "Shut up legs!" Then my lungs started to complain, but I ignored them because everyone knows steam engines are powerful, so if I was puffing like a steam engine that must be good.

But at three-quarters of the way into my mile, I was betrayed by the organ I trust the most– my stomach! I could hardly believe it. I almost always give my stomach what it wants, but there it was, rebelling. If you catch my drift.

So I gave up on the dream of a mile at my old PFT pace, and slowly jogged home, my mouth filled with the taste of bile and failure. But mostly bile.

Posted by: Boviate at 08:30 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 276 words, total size 1 kb.