Decision

Zurdo did not look optimistic. There it was, 8:20 in the morning. We were scheduled to leave to ride ten minutes later, and there were exactly four of us in the clubhouse. The clouds had started to spit and, looking down through the north-west street that exits Plaza de la Remonta, by the cop shop, you could see something grey and thick and wet blow in. It did not look good.

The policy at the Chamartín is that if the weather sucks, the decision whether to go out is put to a vote. Majority rules. Today's vote went 11 against, 9 for. My intentions were good. I wanted to go out, knowing that putting off going out would guarantee clear skies by 11AM. But the further north we got, the greasier the pavement got, and I just got that feeling in my gut that said: Oooh, baby...this is NOT a good idea. I wasn't the only one. By the time the group got to Fuencarral the nine had thinned down to five; the older riders feeling that this was not such a hot idea, the younger ones not so worried about broken bones or sliding out or anything that would cause problems for someone with a job, kids, responsibilities.

I've been home for just over 20 minutes now. My nose is pressed to the glass and I haven't taken my jersey and culotte off. I want it to stop raining and clear up so that I can go out and at least do something.

I can't shake the rising feeling of panic: Quebrantahuesos is only eight weeks away...Quebrantahuesos is only eight weeks away....

I mean, I don't have it as bad as some. I do have the option of just riding up to San Pedro or Hoyo de Manzanares this afternoon and doing some climbing, or just swapping Tuesday's workout for today's, and do Morcuera on Tuesday instead. Hell, if I wanted to, I could climb Morcuera Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, if I wanted to. But I was ready for Morcuera today. I stared at the ceiling for an hour yesterday, going over the climb in my mind, trying to tamp down the rising sense of panic and telling myself that it was all right, that I can do it, that it's a pass that, while not known, is at least familiar.

But even then, I can't shake the rising feeling of panic: Quebrantahuesos is only eight weeks away...Quebrantahuesos is only eight weeks away....