The Dirt Field

I started a new job a few weeks ago at a small IT company in Reston.

[No, the teaser photo was not me signing the offer letter.]

I like the gig well enough and the people seem to be my kind of people. Sharp-witted, irreverent, firmly against early morning meetings. They already make comments about how I’m a dictator and, when a subcontractor said in a meeting today, “people in [Lindsay’s] role can’t be too nice,” my coworker immediately replied, “oh that’s not a problem for her.”

So things are going well, if not a bit busy while I juggle managing two proposals simultaneously. It’s fine; better now in my off month than when I’m trying to ride six days a week, lift weights, and sleep more than six hours a night.

As usual, rest month is not smooth sailing. On one hand, there is something sinfully delicious about having multiple weeknights in a row to fill with nothing. Got distracted by watching crap on Netflix and didn’t get around to watching crap on Hulu? No worries; there’s always tomorrow.

On the other hand, I do not do well when my life is unstructured. I eat too much, spend too much, fret too much, and go a little stir crazy. My favorite hobbies have become doing crosswords puzzles at my favorite coffee shop while inhaling lattes and biscotti, and spending hours socializing and snacking at the bar of an authentic Mexican restaurant.

(This last one has some perks. The bartender gets me to try things I might not otherwise, like beef tongue tacos, and I get to meet interesting people. The bad thing is that these evenings are often lubricated with hands-on lessons about tequila and mezcal. Fernando has been instructed that rest month ends soon and he’s preparing to plumb the depths of non-alcoholic cocktail recipes.)

(The first one has some perks, too, I suppose. That’s not even a coffee pun, although it should be. I like to tell myself that crosswords keep my mind sharp and that I am not a senior citizen with five cats and a sweater collection. I like to also tell myself that going home practically vibrating from so much caffeine is invigorating.)

While it’s nice to enjoy life and spend time doing things that do not involve spandex and powdered drinks, it also feels like the axis upon which my life revolves has been removed. Without the structure of training, the persistent bodily fatigue and ache that signifies a hard ride completed, the excuse to eat piles of food and sit around in the name of recovery, I feel somewhat adrift. When I go to bed at night, I am fidgety and unable to sleep.

This will be over soon. After next week, training begins anew and I will be struggling to find a free hour between work, riding, and the gym. My endless nights of couch time and crosswords and carne asada will cease to exist. It stands to reason that I should enjoy them now, while I still can, before it is essential that I get serious.

Because next year I will be a professional cyclist.

See what I did there?

This is not the formal announcement. Details are yet to come.