Endorphin Rush

Okay, so maybe I'm not a natural at this whole bike game. My lung capacity isn't off the charts, my hematocrit is probably pretty low, and my tendons are as stretchy as aluminum dowels. I overpronate, I have a heart murmur (inefficiency!!!). Pretty much the only thing I've got going for me is the climber's build.

At least I look better shirtless than Rasmussen.

My physiology may be trying to sabotage my sporting career, but damned if it doesn't make up for it by pumping me full of endorphins. Sweet, sweet endorphins.

People talk about the runner's high. While I can't experience what my friends experience, I'm pretty sure that I get that high easier than most people. I just start working out, and BOOM I feel goooood.

Endorphins, by the way, get their name from the fact that they're basically endogenous morphine. Yes, your body produces a controlled substance. Call the DEA! Alert Dick Pound!

Back in college, I was actually convinced that I had an endorphin dependence. I was training for a marathon, but also swimming and running. Occasionally, school would get in the way and I'd go a couple of days without training... suffice it to say that I was a lot less fun to be around during those few days.

That there could be such a strong correlation between sedentariness and bitchiness was a little unnerving.

My training has been pretty much the same since then, by which I mean I train all the time, but occasionally skip a day or 4 (not anymore, though, now I'm following Coach Alessandro's plan... I swear!). I do get a little antsy, a little wound up perhaps, but nowhere near as bad as when I was an undergrad.

So clearly it's not about the endorphins, at least not in the direct, biochemical way. I don't need methadone.

Logically, the alternative is that working out is a therapeutic substitute. Some people visit a shrink, some people pop Prozac, and certainly synagogue or church serve the same purpose. I just happen to be one of those poor schmucks for whom getting my heart rate up for extended periods of time is cathartic.

When I don't ride, I just can't cope with stress as well. Life starts to get to me, and my generally jolly disposition wanes. I self-medicate by clipping back in and finding the nearest hill (no small task in central NJ).

.....

The above has been another edition of "Don Exploring What Every Cyclist Already Knows"