There's something in the air..

...and it isn't love. Well, sure, it's love too. There's always love in the air at the DixieChick house. Lots of good, old-fashioned tender loving care. The kind that comes with warm blankets, good food, hot tea, and a glass of wine.  But I'm pretty sure that today's persistent coughing has nothing to do with love, and everything to do with the tiny little particles that permeate the Georgia air in the month before spring.

Usually, the Georgia air doesn't bother me. Not even during the pollen season, when everything that is left outside for longer than ten minutes is coated in a thick layer of yellowish green viscous dust, and most people cough, sneeze, and snort their way through box after box of claretin. Fortunately, it seems that I'm somewhat resistant to the ickyness that is the Georgia spring air. But yesterday, it seems that the air here finally got the better of me, as today I can't stop coughing or blowing my nose.

All of this wouldn't have happened either, if we hadn't moved to Georgia, if husband-dear and I wouldn't have been this insanely addicted to competition. In order for all of this to make sense, you should probably know that Sunday is our long bike ride day. And before you ask, yes, we actually have a work-out schedule (and a chores schedule. and a bill-paying schedule. Hmm..do you think we may have some issues?). Monday is weights day, Tuesday is trainer day, Wednesday is interval run day, Thursday is off-day, Friday is swim day, Saturday is long run day, and Sunday is long bike day. It keeps us sane, and trim, and healthy. Or so I've been told. Anyway, I digress. Yesterday, when we were about to start on our long ride, husband-dear asked how I would feel about riding over to the time trials organized by the local bike store, just to see what was going on. And as the docile, submissive wife all my southern acquaintances pray that I will turn into I said yes.

Now you know what's coming. Of course you do. When we arrived at the time trial location, they were still signing up riders, and it only took one, "Oh you guys made it! You should so sign up!" from the bike store owner for both of us to sign up for the 4 mile time trial.

For those of you unfamiliar with a time trial, it's basically an attempt to ride as fast you can without killing yourself for, in this case, four miles. You start on a ramp, ride two miles down a deserted road, navigate through a turn-around-point, and peddle your butt back. A new rider starts every minute, and the top three finishers get a prize. It looks very simple, and it is. The only part that I was truly worried about was the ramp.

Seriously. They had built one killer of a ramp. With sponsorship money too.
Everyone kept gushing it was "Just like in the Tour!" and all I wanted to say was, "Yeah, but I'm not in the tour. I don't own a riding bib, have never been sponsored by the Post Office, did not get divorced from a famous singer, and have never had to worry about my balls."
Wait. That's not right.

Anyway. The ramp was insane. It was close to four feet high, and the way it works is that someone steadies the bike by holding onto your seat while you climb on, clip in, and wait for the bell. So let me clarify that picture for you. You're perched on your bike. You're in fact attached to the bike with your shoes. You're sitting on something that's an inch wide, and the only thing that's between you and a six foot fall onto very hard concrete is one man's hand under your seat. Yeah. You pray for that bell to go off. Trust me. Once it does, the man behind you gives you a great big push and you either fly down the ramp and on to the course, or crash off the platform into the crowd, depending on your agility. You will be happy to know I was not the one woman who managed to lose her balance and hurtle herself off the side of platform into a few little kids. No, I flew down the ramp and on to the road without even as much as a yelp.

Once you're off the ramp, the race really starts. As it's only four miles long, even a novice like myself immediately realizes that the idea is to just give it all you got. And that means that while your legs are pumping, your breathing probably best resembles a steam engine: quick, loud, and superficial. Maintain that for twelve minutes, and by the time you're done, your chest feels as though it's on fire, and you've inhaled enough little Georgia red clay particles to keep you sneezing, coughing, and wheezing for days.

And that, for those of you who have stuck it out throughout this incredibly long post, is why I've been hacking up a storm down here. 

I just love time trials (and Georgia).