The women's race was well underway when I decided that I needed to use the bathroom for a second time since I had arrived at the velodrome. This isn't an easy task when your form-fitting attire consists of the combination of a full bib with a half-zip jersey – picture an olympic wrestler wearing both his unitard with a pullover warmup top and having to navigate a urinal – there is a good deal of time and frustration required to achieve such a task, and that is without accounting for the stiff road cycling shoes having to simultaneously navigate a wet tiled floor.
I had been nervous all day, waiting for my chance to finally race. The Mechanical Monster was kind enough to cover my closing shift at the shop so that I could finally experience the thirty laps at the twenty-five-miles-per-hour-pace and know the wind that was otherwise absent along Washington Boulevard. With the local racing season more than half over, I was experiencing a sense of urgency to at least acquire a taste before it was too late, marked by the changing hues of autumn. However, this urgency was humbled by the knowledge that I would not be in the riding shape I was before the season began.
Prior to my working at the bike shop, my commute consisted of eighteen delightful miles. These miles were known mostly by my bicycles unfamiliar to the race track, but were challenging nonetheless. I do, after all, reside in Pittsburgh, the city (of bridges and) of rivers and plenty of hills and valleys formed by these rivers. Now my commute has me barely traveling a mile, devoid of any fitness whatsoever. Where my commute was once my exercise, my precious free time has fallen short to fill this void since accepting the position at the shop. The irony of working at a bike shop for me is that I have less time and opportunity to ride a bike.
Tonight's pace was fast. I was warned of this early on by one of the race marshals, and soon realized its reality when I found myself at the back of the pack. I hung on, and was determined to practice mind over matter. This was a race for beginners and a matter not so daunting for my mind to help my body overcome. Six laps in, we were riding at the pace I had been told to expect. It was exciting, riding at such a clip in a peloton at least thirty-five strong. Six laps in however, my mind and heart decided to disagree about the matter at hand.
My heart rate monitor, which was holding steady at the rate I was expecting with such strain, suddenly reverted to its maximum reading of 240 beats-per-minute. If this was the case, I would be dead. Such a rhythm would denote a heart attack. What this meant instead was that my expensive electronics were being confused by a condition that my family knows well. After nearly a year of slumber, Atrial Fibrillation had torturously returned.
The race ended early for me, as did my my stubborn belief that mind over matter can overcome the particular reality of my not being as race fit as I would have hoped.
