It’s a scientific fact that God picks the weather. He sits up on his cloud, looks down and sends whatever weather pattern that strikes his fancy down upon us, and for some odd reason, he gives weather people a few days vague warning about what the weather will be—probably because he really likes to get on TV.

I adjust my pretend bike racer (PBR) training based upon the weather. If it’s too cold, rainy or snowy, I stay inside and grind away at my trainer while watching the finest housewives that Bravo has to offer. I concluded long ago that—due to the fact that the location of my exertions depends upon the God-generated weather—I am coached by God. Which is another scientific fact that’s as indisputable as the one mentioned above, about God and his weather machine.

God has really not wanted me to be outdoors lately. I have taken his subtle hints of snow, ice and temperatures with shoe-sized numerals attached to mean that I am to retreat to my dan cave (see what I did there?) and grunt out athletic achievements. And as it’s a new year, that means that interval season has started once again.

I like to keep my intervals pretty simple, I have short, medium and long ones. I realize that this seems pretty simple when compared to the rainbow of sweaty options that are out there, but I’ve found that simplifying things works well for me—and I don’t like counting over eight when I’m tired. I’ve resisted the notion that there’s a magical time and duration alchemy for intervals—that you can ride at 67.7% of your RPE max for 23.89 minutes and turn yourself into a mythical beast, able to slay your foes with your thighs of righteousness. I’m not a luddite, mind you, I just find that deciding to do intervals, doing them, and then feeling smug about finishing them afterwards accounts for 90% of the interval experience. The rest is marking time.

The past week has included all three of my interval types. That may seem like a sudden start, but I have dan-thousand™ miles of base to back my exertions. I am also tracking my tired-ness with my phone via the ithlete app (which is like Candy Crush for the athletically obsessive). In the spirit of full disclosure, I will also mention here that I am NOT compensated by ithlete in any way (I am compensated only by spite, I am the official spokesperson for spite, and I shall have my revenge), I just use their app. It tells me when I can demolish myself with effort, in my basement, watching shows about foolish housewives, as God intended.