It's a solitary lot, that of a turbo trainee. Nobody to speak to, shoved away in the corner, only you providing the motivation. Still, it's probably for the best as I can't imagine I look all that appealing puffing, wheezing and sweating like a maniac for an hour or so. My guess is I don't smell all that clever either.
While it does seem to be having an effect, I'm itching to get out on the road proper. This morning's commute in was fantastic - crisp, clear air, bright sunlight and barely any traffic. All the way in, I was imagining what it would have been like to have been climbing the foothills of Crystal Palace a few hours earlier on a twitching, taut, race-bred two-wheeled steed. Even this evening's slog up Pepys Road was far from unpleasant.
This against the backdrop of having been given the all-clear by the doctor. Her only comment was that I could do with losing a few pounds (well, duh) and that my cholesterol level was marginally high, but nothing to worry about. Optimism abounds.
So with legs freshly warmed up by a breezy ascent of Pepys Road, I took to the turbo with the idea of doling out a bit of punishment. I haven't been disappointed. Did some interval sprinting, some hard gear-crunching and some out-of-the-saddle 'climbing' in the smallest sprocket. This last torture was performed every five minutes. Managed to work my way through a litre and a half of water in the process.
None of this is particularly structured though, so I think I'm going to have to consult someone who knows what they're doing to find out how I ought to be using these hour-long sessions.
That or just search the internet.