My grit, I mean. It was hanging out in yesterday's (second) cycling class, just waiting for me to find it.
The morning class was big and exciting, and I worked my little ass off; I pushed way more resistance than I normally would. Probably because out of the three events I wanted to race this weekend, I did not do a single one. One was canceled. One was sold out. And the back-up to the back-up plan . . . well, let's just say that having my alarm set to go off at 6:00 p.m. was not terribly helpful.
And so there I was. Teaching my second set of cycling students on the day (all two of them). Halfway done. And I found myself looking down at the resistance knob, thinking about how easy it would be to turn it down before the truly hard part came. I had the perfect opportunity. No one would have known that I was taking it easy (except me). I had already killed myself in the 8:15 class. And really, isn't one hour of leg-crampingly difficult cycling enough for me?
But it was not enough. I turned the resistance up and murdered that mofo. I hit it hard, maybe right on the edge of too hard.
And I was pleased. I had found my grit. All was right with the world.
Then, on the very last track, my grit stood up, shook off some cobwebs, and frickin' asserted itself. "Don't bother looking for me," it said. "I am right here!" And so, with almost no conscious thought or decision making on my part, I found myself turning the resistance knob up. And up. And up. Until I felt I could barely move my legs. But I did move my legs. In fact, I turned them over about as fast as they could go.
Today, my legs are sore. No, really. SORE.
But I don't care. I've got my grit back.
Now if I could just find a race . . .