Enter Shakira....Exit Shakira (This is MY BLOG, DAMMIT!)
Anyway, the test was great. CTS put me on a stationary bike adjusted to my fit and then gradually increased the watts in 3 minute increments until there was a spike in the amount of lactic acid in my blood. So the routine went like this:
ME: Pedal, pedal, pedal and watching a screen to make sure my RPMs stayed at 90 (a number comfortable to me during the test).
CTS: Nod, nod, alcohol swab, wipe finger, PRICK (it didn't hurt but I still feel it deserves all caps.) Ask me my level of perceived exertion. I said...between gasps for air... "EASY, like a 1 on a scale of 20!" ...Then they added 5 or 6 to record an accurate number. (Sort of like when a short guy tells you he's 5'8" you assume he's actually 5'6".)
ME: Wait 60 seconds and then peek at the reading on the lactic measurer thingmabob. See it is still under 3.5 and think "HO YEAH!" like Peggy Hill!
Then this process continued until my measurements jumped from 2.1 to 3.7 to 5.1 to 8.7 in the span of 12 minutes. I made it further than I thought. And used the results to come to the conclusion that prior to surgery, I was a BEAST. Not like Christian the Lion beast but more like Simba during the fight scene with Scar in Lion King. Wait--did I really just make a Disney reference and expect people to be intimidated?
I'll come up with a better analogy after the next test when I'm asking where the gun show is--flex, flex, flex.
Talk later. Gotta work, then ride, then work. It's 80 here. I'm aiming for another euphoric sunset ending to my ride.