lit·a·ny/ˈlitn-ē/ Noun: 1) A series of petitions for use in church services, usually recited by the clergy and responded to in a recurring formula by the people.
2) A tedious recital or repetitive series.
Bike rides can start off in a variety of ways. Sometimes one is tired or lazy at the beginning. On other occasions, it seems that the feet are ready to dance, and one can hardly wait for the action to start. There are lots of gradations and variations in between. The odd things is, once the body warms up, and the ride is well started, we seem to settle into the rhythm of the thing, and time becomes timeless. That’s the middle of the ride.
If the ride is long enough (a highly subjective and variable condition) one experiences the “long drag to the end of the ride.”
On most days, my commutes are exactly the right length. The trip from home to work is exactly the right length to warm me up, wake me up, energize me, and deliver me to the shop ready to take on the day and meet whatever may come. The trip home is usually exactly the right length too. I will leave the shop tired and sometimes a bit edgy from a demanding day. By the time I’m turning into my neighborhood, I’ve worked out any lingering irritations, stopped the internal conversations, found good things to see and think about, recovered a happy spirit, relaxed, and am quite settled in mood for the evening.
A good and wise friend once said, “The last 20 miles of any ride seem to take forever. Even if it’s only a 20 mile ride.” It’s an interesting phenomena, even if not quite universally true. Something about being near the end of a ride causes a shift in thought. One is no longer “in the ride,” but rather thinking about the end of riding, and about what comes after. One is no longer “in the moment.”
Back some years ago, my daughter and I were training together. We had a very large goal ahead of us. The program began in mid-Summer, and would continue into the Fall and Winter, with the event taking place in the following Spring. Our training program was such that we were extending our distance and duration as we advanced into the Autumn of the year. The rides got longer. They got longer each week, and during each week we would start with shorter rides, and then progress to a bit longer ones, then a short fast one, and then finish the week with a couple of very long rides. Each week the duration increased by an increment.
This kind of progression found us riding toward home later and later, even as it started to get dark sooner, and the temps began to be noticeably cooler. We encountered that odd mental reluctance to work, as the fatigue built. Add to this a peculiarity of my daughter’s. I used to refer to her as a “stable horse.” She was, and remains to this day the “Queen of the negative split.”
We would start out, warm up, and then the difference between our natural styles would become apparent. I would want to go. She would tend to hang back. But no matter what route we took, or how far we went, there would be that point, the invisible place in the ride where we “turned the corner.” By turning the corner, I mean we would cross some line, and we would no longer be riding away, we would then be riding toward home. At that point, my daughter, like a riding stable horse heading toward the barn, would begin to pick up her pace. This was just about the point at which I would begin to feel the fatigue.
The girl would just keep pushing us. I would draw on inner resources and work to stay with her. This would continue until we were in the near vicinity of our home. At about that point, as the dusk gathered, and we both started wishing we were wearing more clothing, the fatigue demon would settle on both our shoulders.
I don’t remember which of us started “The Litany.” But it grew between us, and became a ritual that we shared on every long ride. Usually it started about two or three miles from the end of the ride. One of us would call out the opening stanza. The other would reply with the antiphon. It had a rhythm.
Dot DA da da! Dot DA da da! Dot DA da da!
I’m ti-R-ed!
My ha-nds hurt!
My ba-ak hurts!
My fe-eet hurt!
I’m co-old!
It’s get-ing dark!
I’m so-ore!
AUGGH!
With each repetition we would pick up the pace a bit, increase the tempo of the chant, shift to a slightly higher gear, increase the speed of the bike. By the time we were into the last mile of the ride, we would be laughing our heads off at our state, and at each other. That “litany” brought us home.
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