My Magic Number . . . . .

Is 167. That’s not my weight (although not far from it), but my threshold -- my heartbeats per minute before I feel like I am ready to crap out.

Today was the lactic threshold ride, which helps you determine where your fat burning and aerobic zones are. Not gonna lie to you -- it was tough.

We started at a recovery rate, just going ‘round and ‘round on the pedals, warming up, and then every 2 minutes worked to increase your heart rate by five beats, until you were at a number where you could maintain it, but not able to maintain anything above it.

167 was mine, and I held it.

And held it.

And held it some more.

For about 15 minutes. Until I wanted to kill somebody, particularly those people who weren‘t personally "there" yet and who I blamed for prolonging my hell.

But I did it. My legs were burning, I was dripping in sweat, I wanted a drink, andI developed a spectacular cramp just under my right shoulder/at the top of my ribcage in my back.

But I was able to maintain it.

And I feel like a rock star.

The key was deep inhales and exhales, and talking myself to work through the discomfort. I have learned that when it starts to feel uncomfortable, breathe deeply and work it out; you reach a point where you can eventually break through it.

The other key -- the heart rate monitor. I didn’t think it was possible to be so connected to an inanimate object as I was to my heart rate monitor. I kept my eyes trained on that with nothing going through my head but the “HOLD THAT NUMBER” mantra. And it worked. I would think it, and it would appear on the watch face.

My butt, however, is mucho tender. There was no standing for 45 minutes. It got so numb there I didn’t even realize I had an ass.

I am well aware of it now.