Bloody Fingers

I have dreadful memories of getting blood tests at my annual physical when I was a child. I anticipated my birthday each year with a combination of excitement and terror. Excitement because, well, what child isn't excited about his birthday? Fear because of the anticipation of shots and blood tests. When it came down to it, a tiny prick on the finger was hardly a blood test and required what could only questionable be categorized as a real needle. It's ridiculous how much tougher my daughters are than I ever was. They have intentionally watched things being done to them that still cause me to look away. I don't exactly look forward to needles poking my skin these days, but I'm not afraid. That said, gazing upon those foot-long novocaine needles aiming for my gums gives my palpitations.

I spent about an hour with Coach Dan early this morning for lactate threshold testing. You know lactate, or lactic acid, our old friend, that stuff that builds up in our bodies when we push ourselves physically. Feel the burn? That's lactic acid. Lactate threshold is the point of exertion at which the lactic acid builds up so rapidly we begin to fail.

I arrived at Coach Dan's house and he led me to the basement, which he called the "Dungeon of Pain," and he wasn't exactly kidding. He set my bike up on the trainer and, after a 15 minute warm up, the suffering began.

Cyclists train with power meters these days. A power meter informs the rider of how many watts he's pushing at any given moment. It's a far more effective training tool than heart rate-based training. Coach Dan called out wattage numbers and my job was to keep my legs pushing exactly those watts for 4 minutes. At the end of 4 minutes, still pedaling, I extended my left hand towards Coach Dan's gloved hands with which he pricked my fingers, drew blood, and placed a drop of life into a small doodad that displayed the amount of lactic acid in my blood stream. As soon as that value was determined, he called out a higher number and commanded me to hit my new wattage target for 4 more minutes. This continued until I had no blood left. Actually, Coach Dan left me a few liters. These 4-minute intervals continued, without rest, until the lactic acid jumped significantly, indicating that I reached my threshold. After a brief rest, Coach Dan informed me that we'd do one more interval, a short one, as hard I could sustain for 60 seconds. It's a lot harder than it sounds, even to me as I sit comfortable on my couch. I don't know how to spell the grunts and groans that the effort squeezed out of me, but it was ugly.

The theory is that, as my training continues, my threshold will rise, meaning, I'm going to have to go through that hellish drill again. Oh yeah, he wants me to come back for a session on the dreadmill so we can determine my running threshold as well. Can't wait. Can you tell by my tone of voice.

It sure was reassuring for Coach Dan to suggest that my numbers looked promising, informing him that I just may be able to churn out a pretty swift bike split at the Ironman. Though, clearly, it will take continued hard work, high intensity, painful training, and many more bloody fingers!

So far, this journey has cost me blood and sweat. Bring on the tears!