47 miles today. In under three hours. Felt great. With the weather finally coming around, I am looking forward to my cycling future with great eagerness.
I am faster at 184lbs (yes, that’s what I’m at) than I was at 213.
Duh.
But what’s so beautiful about this hobby, this sport, this addiction is that the old adage is really true…
It never gets easier, you just go faster.
I chose an old route I hadn’t ridden in a long time. Around the lake, over the bridge, and an old friend – Hog Hollow.
Those of you who’ve been around here long enough know that in my little neck of the nape (StL), what counts as hills isn’t quite the same as Cycling Mecca. Out there you have your choice of anything from short stingers to climbs of 4, 7, even 14 miles. With gradient averages anywhere from 6% to 14%. Yes, average.
But here in the bullseye of the U.S. the longest climb I’ve found is under 4 miles. Most everything is short – under a mile – with some nasty pitches, but again, under a mile. These have been well documented on this project.
One favorite is Hog Hollow. Barely half a mile, with an average grade of 10%, pitching to 18+ at the end. The thing that makes it stand out (at least a bit) from the other stingers around here is that it has several turns and switchbacks in its short span.
I have conquered Hog Hollow several times. And by conquer, I mean made it to the top without dying. Every time I’ve ridden it, I have been completely cooked at the end of the half mile. A couple of times I’ve had to actually pull over for a moment. Yes, I said this climb was HALF a mile.
On Strava, my personal best effort was nestled in 176th place out of 183 riders. Not last, right?
Today I ascended Hog Hollow at my new 184 pounds and went it up a full 38 seconds faster than I ever have before. This Contadorian effort rocketed me up from 176th all the way too 153rd. Look out Mt Washington!
But here’s the thing about today’s effort. At the end I wasn’t cooked. Wasn’t out of breath. Didn’t have to pull over or dive for my water bottle. I was… fine.
I guess that means I could have pushed myself harder and maybe ended up in 150th place? But I was happy.
I rode it early in my day, and then spent the next 35 miles just riding. Enjoying being back on the bike. I saw things. Some old favorites. And some old favorites saw me. They were even so happy to see my new trim self they inverted themselves as I pedaled by.
And I saw new things… weird things.
And I saw new old things… like back in time.
I can’t ride tomorrow, but am hoping to get on a at-least-3-rides-a-week schedule minimum. Currently, I am 500 miles behind where I was at this time last year. But I’m stronger, I’m lighter, and I’m a winner.
Winner you asked? Isn’t that a little presumptuous, Mr. Thin Man?
Well, all I can say is… the very best part of this new life is the fact that it enabled me to help my 5th grade daughter win her school’s Father-Daughter Dance Contest!
This is not a very long, nor very humorous post. I apologize.
It is now 36 days since that March 18th morning when I fell below 200lbs.
In those 36 days, I have ridden a total of seven times. For a combined 200 miles. Not bad, but not world beating.
And now we go from amazing to freaking Crazytown… in those same 36 days… I am down another…
13.5 pounds.
Yes. This morning I weighed 186lbs. I have not been this weight since the mid 90′s. Crazytown.
It is one pound off of the magical dream I had when I started riding — 185 pounds. That was my dream because, among other reasons, I thought it was almost completely unattainable. Now I am one pound away.
And 185 ain’t good enough. New plan (not goal, PLAN) — 170lbs.
Climbing weight.
Since this revelation in January, I am down a total of 26.5 pounds. In just over THREE MONTHS. With only 9 rides during that time. Freaking Crazytown.
Eating. It is all about eating. Notice I did not say NOT eating. I am eating, people. Trust me. I have found in my vast experience of yo-yo dieting, that not eating only makes you feel like crap, and greatly increases the odds of binging later.
I have been eating… differently. Than ever in my life. And after those shaky first few weeks… I LIKE IT.
I like eating healthy food. I don’t miss the garbage anymore. I did at first, for sure, but now the thought of mounds of fried food and greasy burgers and blah, blah, blah… sounds like a root canal.
That’s pretty much it from here. I hope to be riding more and more now that our weather has stabilized and my back has healed. I will try to take some pretty Steveian photos for you all.
Until then… this is the mayor of Crazytown reminding you that it IS possible, you CAN do it, it does NOT take someone special, and it IS worth it.
So, I’ve been nursing the bulged discs this year. Physical therapy and taking it easy — meaning, no riding. Or at least not much. At all. As of this writing – March 9th – I have ridden 52 miles this entire year. With no ride over 18 miles.
As you all know, I crapped out last year. Quick recap — in 2010 I started riding, started eating a little better, and dropped nearly 40 pounds. In 2011, I rode more, but ate more, and I gained some weight, lost some weight, and ended the year in pretty much the same place I started. In 2012, I rode more, ate a lot more and ended the year UP in weight.
I came into 2013 depressed. I could not control my eating, could not get on the bike enough… and just when I thought I had grabbed on to a good, positive mindset to attack the year, I blew my back out. The only thing worse than not riding is wanting to ride and not being able to — ask Aaron if you don’t believe me.
Now, here is where it starts to get weird…
So, this year began in a bad mental state. I knew from the experience of the 3 years of this project that despite my efforts, I could not eat better (as I preach) on a consistent basis. It seemed as though my exercise informed my eating. I only ate better when I was exercising regularly — getting those endorphins and whatnot, and all the positive energy that comes from exercising.
Obviously, I was dreading this whole back injury thing and the next several weeks… how bad would I fall? How fat would I get?
I know there are a lot of you reading this that don’t struggle with these issues. But I also know there’s some of you out there who are saying, “I know EXACTLY how you feel.” Well, for you folks, get ready for some good news.
With only a handful of short rides this year, and no other exercise whatsoever, this morning I weigh exactly ten pounds LESS than I did mid-January.
10 pounds.
I am three tiny pounds away from returning to that magic 200.
Here’s what happened…
I got inspired. I got motivated. Now, what exactly inspired me is too personal to share here. But just know that I was able to find something to motivate me enough to do the one thing I have never been able to do…
Stop eating.
Let me rephrase. Because not eating is as unhealthy as overeating. What I am talking about is — I stopped eating garbage. Fries and fried anything; chips and crisps; ice cream; pizza; double cheeseburgers… mmm, getting hungry? Yeah, I used to feel the same way. But around the first week in February, I had a personal epiphany and just quit cold turkey. When I went to restaurants where I’d normally order an app of fried delights, then consume a burger smothered in cheese or massive order of pasta, I ordered fish or a salad.
And it sucked. At first. But I got through it by taking a page from AA…
One Day At A Time.
Alcoholism is an addiction, like heroin or coke, or food. I am a food addict. I eat to self-medicate. I eat to comfort myself. I eat to hide.
But when I found my private inspiration, I just went one day at a time… ONE MEAL AT A TIME. I told myself, “Just get through this meal without eating crap, or eating too much.” And one meal led to two, then to three, and so on.
Now, I’m going to mention it again — this was not always easy. I had god days, and I had some really, really tough days. Especially late at night, in front of the TV, when my body was used to consuming a myriad of garbage. But I just kept repeating that mantra…
Just get through this one meal… through this one day.
And after about ten days of this, it got SO MUCH easier. Because I was seeing immediate results. My clothes, my face in the mirror. Holy di2, Batman! I was losing weight OFF THE BIKE!
I searched out sushi and breakfast bars and salads and fruit. I forgot how awesome fruit is! See, once you stop eating garbage, you lose the taste for it rather quickly.
Yesterday, I was cleared to ride again. And I cannot wait to get back on The Goat and ride like I never have before. Because this time it is different.
Instead of using the bike to motivate my lifestyle, I changed my lifestyle to motivate my riding. I didn’t NEED the exercise of riding. What I NEEDED was to change my lifestyle. The way I lived off the bike. Because, even if we ride as much as Jens, it is still a tiny percentage of our daily lives.
So, to you fellow Hill Slugs, battling the whispering Jabberwock of delicious treats… You. Can. Win. It will not be easy. At all. But YOU CAN DO IT.
What you must do is find that epiphany. Find that lighthouse, that golden chalice, that beautiful woman or man waiting for you, that, that, whatever it is… you must find the motivation first. FInd SOMETHING that you can latch onto, that you can use as a carrot or goal or whatever, and then begin…
One meal at a time.
One day at a time.
It will suck at first. Your dark self will try to convince you that you’ve been great for three days, you can cheat just this one time… that one bite of pizza won’t be a big deal… it is a HUGE deal. Don’t do it.
Don’t set a time goal. Don’t say you will try for a week or a month. Just do it one meal at a time. One day at a time.
And it will work. And once your lifestyle changes, then your desire for riding or any exercising will increase exponentially. Right now, my mindset is — “If I’m losing like this without riding, what is going to happen when I start riding again?!?”
I can’t wait.
Remember folks…
You are better than you think you are. You can do more than you think you can.
I have NOT not been on the bike due to wimpiness regarding weather, time, etc. And I have NOT been eating my way through bags of chips (crisps). fried food, or any of my other demons.
The bad news…
The reason I have not been writing pithy posts and posting Steve-esque photos of all my January rides is because – for the first time in my 40+ years – I have injured my back.
According to the MRI, I have no less than four discs bulging in various stages of… bulgyness. Now, most dudes my age have a bulged disc or two, especially if you’re carrying too many pounds. But they are usually “minimal” bulge. Not the case here.
I won’t bore you all with the sordid tale of how/why except to say that both an experienced physical therapist AND two different doctors all agreed that — If I WEIGHED LESS and had better core strength this likely would not have happened.
My last ride was 10 days ago. I was setting a PR on TRFKATP when I felt a twinge in my left foot… then my left hip… then I stopped at an intersection, waited for it to clear and as I clipped in again and started to pedal, I was greeted with pain the likes I have only experienced once before in my life — when I broke my elbow.
The pain can only be described as “Someone taking a thermal lance and driving it into my butt, down my leg and through my foot, all while I chew razor blades as Phil Liggett pokes my face with an EPO needle.“
It shot through me so fast and hard that I was forced to abandon the bike, call my wife and have her pick me up in the SHAME wagon.
I have started rehab and if things go well I can get back on the bike soon, albeit I have been told in no uncertain terms that I cannot attempt any massive climbs or go for any Strava segment KOM’s.
I need to ride on the hoods or tops, keeping my spine as straight as possible. But by this week’s end, I should be cleared to remount the Goat. (side note: I may make those first post-bulge rides in Cycling Mecca. Stay tuned)
Watching cycling’s return to television this week with the Tour Down Under should inspire me. Until then, it’s core strength exercise after core strength exercise and eating not just better, but LESS.
Every pound overweight I am is unnecessary pressure put on my poor spine.
I just thank God that nothing has herniated. The searing pain ride was my body’s version of RED ALERT! RED ALERT! DANGER WILL ROBINSON!
My first ride in the new year was a staggering 5.2 miles. That’s not a typo. Five miles… and I loved it. And I froze my freaking face off.
But let’s start from the beginning.
I have lost battles with my weight on many occasions since the Unfat Project began. But this most recent one has resulted in a different reaction than previous battles. Before, I always snuck off to a corner, licked my wounds, and waited for some divine intervention to get me back on the bike — usually in the form of a group ride, or great race on tv, etc.
This time I feel different. When I was researching my year-end post and discovered the total amount of weight I had actually lost during these past two years, I was stunned. If I had gained back only twenty percent of all the weight I’ve dropped since January of 2010, I would be typing this right now at a svelte 175 pounds.
Holy Richard Simmons, Batman!
And that’s including a 20% failure option. So, to say I am motivated for this year is an understatement. Add to that, divine intervention arriving on Christmas Day in the form of this:
The official Skratch Labs cookbook. Wheee!
Filled with truly delicious (and fairly easy) recipes that are designed for the athlete, this book is awesome. Try the pork fried rice before you eat anything else!
Started by Allen Lim — a man who knows more about nutrition and how it relates to cycling and the body than probably any other human – Skratch Labs drink mix is the definitive alternative to everything else that contains bad sugars, colors, and anything else that keeps the mix from giving your body the very best.
Lim has worked with the biggest names in cycling and endurance sport. People pay him HUGE sums of money to advise their athletes, cook meals for them, and basically get their bodies to perform at the very highest level.
What’s great is that all this world-class knowledge works for us HillSlugs, too. If we can perform better on the bike (ride longer, train harder, etc) it results in faster weight loss, and simply just better fitness on all levels. I feel a definite difference (a positive one) when I have Skratch Labs in my bottles than when I have anything else. I perform better on the bike with Skratch labs, and thus ride harder and farther, and lose weight faster.
Anyway… the cookbook is awesome. And the information in the book a plus.
I have also drawn inspiration from some of you, specifically Steve — our defending Comment Champion. Reading about his frosty rides (and those of some others out there) caused me to think that weather is simply… weather. Black ice notwithstanding, so long as you dress appropriately, you can ride in pretty much any weather.
This jacket is sick. Like, crazy sick warm. But it is not binding, nor heavy. It fits like a cycling jersey. It has 3 rear pockets, it wicks sweat, and did I mention it is WARM? It is. With a Rapha merino base layer under it, I rode today in sub-30 weather (with wind) and my body was completely warm and comfortable.
I wore it in Tucson the week after Christmas on a 28-mile ride in the 40′s, and had to remove it near the end of the ride because I was too warm.
So, with my new booties, gloves, my trusty Hincapie Arenberg bib tights, and my new Zoncolan, I set off this morning with the thermometer reading 24 degrees. I had never ridden in anything below 34 degrees.
It was awesome. Everything on my body was warm and comfy… except for my face.
My feet were good, my hands were good, my head was good, my body was good… even my face was okay as I rolled out of my neighborhood, down Chad, and headed for the levee trail. But then I stopped.
Holy Burl Ives, Batman!
While the roads were clean and clear, my levee trail was snow covered. No problem, I thought, I will continue on, riding the lovely bike paths around here.
So I did. And it was awesome… until I turned into the headwind.
Now, I have dealt with some massive headwinds in my short riding career. I think 27mph is the record. So, a little 8-10mph headwind like today shouldn’t be a big deal… except it was less than 30 out.
When you turn into a headwind like this at this temperature, with nothing covering your face but skin… freezer burn comes on rather quickly.
I actually said “Holy crap!” out loud, and had to ride one-handed or no-handed, alternately covering my face with my gloves.
It was brutal. It was painful. I turned off as soon as I could and tried to continue the ride, all while avoiding going west. But that really doesn’t work, if you want to get back home.
Eventually, I had to pack it in after just five miles. My face was stinging. My eyes even hurt.
But there is nothing negative about my first ride of 2013. I realized that all I need now is a balaclava and I will be set. The rest of my body was toasty warm, and if I’d had something covering my face, I know I could’ve ridden for a couple hours, easy.
I am excited about 2013. I am excited about conquering the cold. I am excited about riding more and posting more. One of my goals for 2013 is to include more photos on this blog. I find myself enjoying the photos on other riders’ blogs and realized you all probably feel the same. So here’s to 2013!
Rollers. Not the ones we fall off of in our homes while watching Season 3 of THE WIRE. I mean the ones outside, out on the roads.
We all know them. Most of us hate them. Or love/hate. Those rides where you have all-too-long climbs followed immediately by all-too-short descents, and then up again… and down again… and up… and… you get the picture.
My 2012 was like 5 miles of rollers. Great, amazing highs, and tremendously low lows. But first, the stats…
This little aid station on the cyberspace century had 6,708 visits in 2012. From 78 countries. The U.S. was first, but the U.K. was a close second. The longest distance someone “traveled” was from New Guinea. Or New Zealand. I’m not sure which is farther away.
Steve led all commenters with 18, while Jeff Bike and Formerslug battled it out for 2nd. I can’t link to Jeff Bike’s blog because I don’t know where it is… so, Jeff, if you’re out there, drop your link in the comments! Thanks to these three and everyone else for taking time to drop a note during the year.
Steve also led in the top referring site — thanks, Steve!
The craziest search term entered that sent someone to this blog was some dude in Alabama who Googled “Giant snake eats person” and somehow ended up here. This led me to think… perhaps in 2013 I will add the occasional odd tag to one of my posts just to see what type of traffic it brings. Be sure and watch for that in the new year!
I met some new friends in 2012, including but not limited to — Sam Bangs — a young woman in the land of La who is working out some sh*# just like the rest of us. I love her honesty about her struggles, her humor and her dedication to overcome. Check her out.
I also discovered Aaron over at Steep Climbs. This guy is pure inspiration. Here is a cyclist who loves climbing as much as I do, but he’s actually good at it! His climbs are so epic they should include a Himalayan sherpa. Thanks, Aaron, for making me push myself a little more than I would have.
Now to the rollers. I had some great accomplishments in 2012, and some great failures. To recap…
I rode 2,642.9 miles in 2012. I was hoping for 4,000 early in the year, then dropped that goal to 3,000 over the summer, but an awful October and November did me in, and I barely rode more than I did in 2011.
I climbed 131,101 feet according to Hal 9000. It was a new record for me and I am happy and looking forward to shooting for 150,000 in 2013.
My best month of riding was May where I logged 406 miles. I did a pair of Century rides and four Metric Centuries during the year. I hope to double both those numbers in 2013. Speaking of which…
2013 will mark my triumphant return to the EL TOUR DE TUCSON. Those of you who’ve been around since the beginning will remember that this 109-mile ride each November was my 2010 goal and I achieved it, though my performance left much to be desired. Read about it HERE.
In 2013 I will return to that ride and plan on doing it in under seven and a half hours.
I lost a lot of weight in 2012, but unfortunately gained a large chunk of it back. On January 14th, 2012 I weighed 214.5. Up fifteen pounds from my El Tour weight of just two months prior. I told you all on the 14th that I was on a descent to 180 pounds.
I did not make it. I did not even come close. I had some great weeks throughout the year, but I always fell back into old and nasty habits and thus, on December 31st, 2012, I weighed in at 210.
Four and half pounds lost in one year. And in a year when I got all the way down to 200 at one point.
Pathetic.
I could list a myriad of reasons why I yo-yo’d all year, but it really comes down to this…
WHEN I RIDE I LOSE WEIGHT. WHEN I DON’T RIDE I GAIN WEIGHT.
‘Nuff said.
My 2013 goal is to RIDE. Every chance I get.
I began this cycling odyssey in January of 2010. Over the last two years I have lost over 80 pounds! But I have gained back nearly as much.
When I ride I lose weight. When I don’t ride I gain weight.
2013. The Year of The Ride.
Thanks again to all of you for hanging around. You inspire me, you make me laugh, you keep me honest, and I feel connected to you all in some weird cyber way.
Here’s to all of us getting fit an STAYING fit in 2013… and beyond!
I forgot that as long as you dress properly you can ride in the cold and feel okay.
I forgot how much I love to ride.
This weekend it warmed up at least enough that I could not use the weather as excuse. Or maybe I was just so disgusted with myself, I no longer wanted to hide. Also, there were no family or work issues that I could have twisted into an excuse not to ride.
So I rode. And I remembered. A lot more than I forgot.
I remembered how much better it is to see your surroundings from a bike saddle rather than from inside a car.
I have done the math, and of those 22 days there were 15 days I was literally (due to work, weather, travel, family) unable to ride.
That leaves 7 days where I could have ridden. Maybe for only an hour or so, maybe even for only 20 minutes. But I COULD have ridden, and I did not. I had good excuses, but that’s all they were – excuses.
I started off the month on such a high – I rode the 80-mile Pedal The Cause in record time (for me), and with Indian Summer hitting St. Louis, I was eyeing a 400-mile October. Then a couple of days where I was planning on riding got messed up, then an unexpected work trip happened, then depression and frustration, and bang — 22 days off the bike.
As I write this it is 34 degrees out. Certainly not fun cycling weather, but I COULD ride… except that I am sitting here waiting for a plumber to arrive at our home. This is why you MUST ride when you have the chance. Because if you put it off thinking that you’ll ride later or tomorrow or the next day, something else always comes up.
I have a trainer in our basement. Here is how many times I have been on that trainer since returning from Cycling Mecca…
Zero.
It takes about a 40-second search on the Internet to find all the theories about how long it takes for something to become a “habit” for your body and mind. Mostly it averages out to about three weeks. 21 days.
It takes roughly (arguably) 21 days to form a habit — meaning, if you do something for 21 days straight it will become a habit and then you will no longer have to force yourself to do it. That happened to me with cycling. I did it often enough that my body and mind got used to it, expected it, WANTED it.
And I could literally feel that desire fading away in my physiological makeup over the past 22 days… after 4 or 5 days off the bike I was going crazy. I was like a heroin addict without his works. My body was begging for me to ride. Every day I would get up and my body was expecting to be on The Goat within an hour or so, and when that didn’t happen, my body didn’t know how to react.
My mind was in the same predicament. As each day went on, I found myself getting more frustrated with little things; my temper shortening; my creative juices jammed up. My body and mind were telling me what I needed… and I ignored them.
Around day 12 or 13 off the bike I hit depression. Major depression. I could almost bring myself to tears when thinking about riding. I would see a cyclist on the road and want to curl up like a baby and suck my thumb.
And then… about day 15 or 16… the habit I had worked so hard to create was gone. I woke up and my body had no thought of the bike. My mind was more interested in what soccer match was on TV rather than if I could venture outside and ride.
Instead of the energy I had at night – the energy that kept me alert and drinking tea instead of consuming chips – was gone. At night, I just wanted to sit and eat. I was a sloth.
And the very worst part is, I could have done something about it. My body and mind were certainly doing their best to give me Red Alert warning signs. But I ignored them. And paid the price.
You may recall a recent post where my weight – dropping under that magical 200 – had jumped back up a few pounds and I was upset. I decided to stop the weekly weigh-ins and do my own work. Manage my self, and weigh-in every few weeks for a more accurate accounting.
That didn’t go well.
As of this writing I am at 207.5 pounds. Once again, all the work of August and September out the window. The yo-yo effect in full glory.
22 days off the bike combined with eating well during maybe eight or ten of those days… leads to 207. Point 5.
I have realized that I am one of those really annoying people who can tell everyone else exactly how to lose weight and get fit, all the while not doing it for myself. Don’t you hate those people? I know I do.
22 days.
So what to do? What do we do when we have fallen off the proverbial wagon? When we have let ourselves down? When we have done the very thing we set out not to do? What do we do?
2 things.
1. We LEARN from it.
Take an honest, pragmatic look at where we went wrong. The key word there is HONEST. Break it down, figure it out point by self-loathing point, and then…
2. Start over.
Back to square one and the drawing board and all the other cliches. START OVER. One day at a time. One step at a time. One pedal stroke at a time. One bite at a time.
I started over last night. I downloaded the pithy MY FITNESS PAL app, and began to keep a calorie diary. It is by no means completely accurate but it makes you accountable if you’re being honest. You login your age, size, other logistics, and your weight-loss goal, and then the app “tells” you how many calories a day you should intake based on your activity level to lose that amount of weight. Again, none of it works unless you are HONEST.
This little app is in no way a savior of any kind. It is simply a device to help make me accountable and get me back on track in these days where winter is approaching faster than Thor Hushovd on a descent, and thus, my chances of 3 and 4 hour Rapha rides diminishing.
To recap… I suck. But I take full responsibility for it and will (once again) start over. I will do my best to push myself to ride even if only for 20 minutes; even if it’s incredibly uncomfortable and my toes freeze; even if it’s on the basement trainer. I must ride when I don’t want to ride. And I must eat like an athlete again. Not like a fan.
Eat like an athlete, not a fan.
I should tattoo that on my forehead.
And I must start over. And the most important part of starting over is to let the past go. Yes, suckage ensued, but it’s over now. Forget it and start over. Day One. Baby Steps. All that.
I appreciate the few readers I have, and appreciate that you stop by here to help keep me focused and accountable. I appreciate my fellow bloggers out there, all battling your own demons, all fighting the good fight of a healthy life. We will prevail.
First off, please go HERE and donate. It is an amazing cause, 100% of all donations stay right here, and the only thing worse than someone battling cancer is a child battling it.
It was pitch black and a balmy 32 degrees when I left my driveway heading for downtown St. Louis and the start of the 2012 Pedal The Cause ride. It had rained on and off all week, but the day promised sun if not warmth.
I listened to the soundtrack from ROAD TO ROUBAIX on the way there, and it seemed to inspire me. The ride was to be almost 80 miles with 5600 feet of climbing, though the awful MapyMyRide site had the elevation gain listed as 2200. What a rude awakening awaited some riders.
This was to be my first big event ride since last November’s 2011 El Tour de Tucson with my son. By the way, if you missed that post, it’s worth taking time to read… my boy rocks.
I had ridden the 100 Miles of Nowhere this summer, done a flat century and even a couple of metric centuries by myself. But there is always something about a big event ride that gets my heart rate up.
What’s missing from the above list? Yes… shoe covers. <<Foreshadowing
There were over 1,800 riders in this year’s Pedal The Cause, and more than five hundred of us were tackling the “Long Ride.” By sheer chance I was in about ninth position as we lined up at the start… I noticed that most of those around me were on bikes with European names, Zipp wheels, and had body shapes that resembled Jens Voigt. Mine resembles Philip Seymour Hoffman.
But I was sporting my brand new and super fast TEAM FATTY kit from Twin Six, so I knew I could hang with these speedsters.
There was a giant American flag hanging above the start/finish line and as a local voice sang the Star Spangled Banner, that thing that always happens to me at the start of big event rides happened…
I began to cry.
Okay, not actually cry. But yeah, pretty close. I have actually cried tears from my eyes only twice on the bike. The first time was when I saw my family with homemade signs cheering me on during my first ever big event ride back in 2010, and the second was during the disaster that was the 2010 El Tour de Tucson.
Since then I have not actually cried on the bike, but I have gotten misty eyes and a lump in my throat – and it’s always at the start of these events. I don’t know what the emotional trigger is for me, but as the National Anthem came to an end, and the announcer blew the horn and we all clipped in rolled away, I could feel it coming.
And it’s always around the same point – when I start to see all those volunteers and policemen out there, this morning standing in freezing temps just to help all of us on our ride. The eyes welled, the lump came, and I remember thinking, “Get ahold of yourself, Fizz, you’re not a rookie anymore.”
And so I did.
Despite the cold I was feeling good. I was being passed by some riders, but not nearly as many as I would have thought. The first five miles are straight out of downtown and mostly flat, and I was managing a 18-19mph average without much effort. It was cold, but not unbearable. I remember feeling like the only body part that really felt cold were my toes… but surely they would warm up as I pedaled.
The first rest stop – called “Refueling Stations” at Pedal The Cause – came around 7.5 miles in. I rolled by it, surprised to see so many riders there, especially since these were folks who had been riding so much faster than me. I cruised by, still feeling good. Then I began to hear a noise in my left ear.
For a moment I wondered if a bird had gotten stuck in my jersey. I glanced over my shoulder and saw it was not a bird. My bib number had come loose from the back of my jersey and was flapping up against the back of my shoulders.
Let me pause here to say… if any of you are planning any big event rides in the future, I highly recommend getting that spray adhesive stuff to glue your bib number to your jersey. It peels off after the ride, the goo washes off, and you never have to worry about safety pins tearing holes in your brand new Team Fatty kit so large that the bib number comes loose and flaps against you like some sick scene out of a Hitchcock film.
I rolled into the next refueling station (mile 13) and texted my wife to “bring safety pins” to the next station – mile 23 – where my family had planned to meet me. As I got my gloves back on after the texting I watched rider after rider roll by me. My competitiveness kicked in, and I had to force myself not to chase. I was in this for the long haul, not for time, but for completion.
The next several miles were over a series of rollers, and I found a group of five riders and we all hung together and took turns pulling each other.
I had estimated that if I kept a 14mph pace overall, I could finish this ride in six hours, maybe even a little less. It all depended on how much the climbs and cold would take out of me.
I had told my wife to be at the mile-23 stop by 8:30. That would be 90 minutes after the start, and I figured I could managed 16mph over that part of the course. I hit the stop and saw my fam at exactly 8:30. Everything was good, except for the fact that I could not feel my toes at all.
Ascension
I hugged my kids goodbye and headed off. We were now entering “my world” – the part of the ride that goes over the very roads I ride on every day. Those of you who have had the gift of doing an event ride on familiar roads can appreciate what a calming influence it can be. I felt good and rolled along trying to ignore my toes, or lack thereof.
The first big climb was Shepherd Road. It’s a Cat 4 on Strava — a 2.9 mile climb that hits 13% right out of the gate, then averages about 7-8% the rest of the way. I was in my spinningest gear when I hit the climb – my strategy being not to blow up early so I would have something left later when the grade isn’t so bad.
I was passed by seven riders in the first 100 yards (91 meters for you lads across the pond) of the climb. A man and woman in matching kits, two big, tall arrogant dudes (more on them later), and three women all sporting fancy team kits. But I just kept spinning my chunky bum up Shepherd.
After cresting the steepest part of the climb, something happened. My climbing camp with Hova from this spring kicked in — he had told me the single biggest mistake riders make when climbing is NOT shifting enough. They lock into a gear and go. Climbing is not about strength or stamina — it is all about rhythm and momentum. And the best way to keep momentum is to shift. A lot. I am sure Aaron can attest to this.
So I started shifting. Back and forth through the gears, keeping my momentum at its peak. And it worked.
I began catching and passing all those who had passed me. Before the climb’s end I had even caught a couple of people who had passed me before the climb. I crushed Shepherd Road.
There was only about 2 miles between the Shepherd climb and the next one – Babler. I stopped but at a refueling station to refill my bottles. As I stood there I watched all those riders I’d passed come back by. The two arrogant dudes rolled by and said – loud enough so we’d all hear – “That’s what happens when you go too hard too soon.”
Okay, these guys aren’t just arrogant. They’re douches.
Nothing is as inspiring as wanting to catch and drop two douches. I downed a Gu and mounted The Goat. “Let’s roll.”
Yes, I seriously said that. Out loud.
There is a half-mile long, 3% descent on the way to Babler State park. I hit 40mph on it and caught the douches about a hundreds before the entrance to the park. They were cranking big gears about 35mph when I blew by them in a full tuck. The entrance to Babler is a short 15% rise. I went back into my spin mode, knowing the dangers that lurked deep inside the park.
Near the top of the entrance road the two douches caught me and happily rolled by – both out of the saddle – and one said, “Nice tuck.” I ignored them and kept spinning.
The Tortoise and The Douchey Hares
My family was waiting inside Babler and I smiled and waved and stopped to hug, knowing Dos Douches were getting farther away. But worried I was not. I had seen them on Shepherd and knew what was coming.
There are a few climbs inside Babler. The second toughest is 1.3 miles averaging over 13% with two nasty pitches over 17%. That’s the one we’d be doing.
To get there you must descend down into the woods – now you can’t (or at least Ican’t) go all out on this descent because there are three blind turns and since cars exist in my world, I can never fully commit. But I still did pretty well. I hit 42mph and then began hallucinating.
I saw two great white sharks on the side of the road. Or at least two people in shark costumes. Not cheering, not ringing bells… just standing there… silently… in shark costumes… in a state park… at nine in the morning. If I hadn’t been on a douche hunt, I would have stopped for a photo op. It was surreal.
When I hit the climb I got the tiniest taste of the Tour de France. There was a guy dressed in a devil costume – with trident and all – yelling and running along side me. It was AWESOME! I don’t know who that dude was, but thank you devil dude!
I spun my way up the first 17% grade. I saw no other riders. Not the two douches, nobody. I kept spinning. I crested the first pitch and shifted. Then climbed and shifted and climbed and shifted.
As I made my way to the last part of the climb I saw a rider. Not one of the two douches, just a guy in a Pedal The Cause jersey, paper-boying his way up the last pitch.
I spun past him, crested the summit, slammed my Shimano Ultegra into the big ring and began to haul ass. I had forgotten about the cold, my toes, or my spiked heart rate – everything was all about the douche hunt.
I cranked and cranked and found them. Both sitting up, recovering from the climb. I got out of the saddle and dropped them like third period French.
I came back out to the front of the park and stopped to see my family. As hugs were given all around, here came the two douches again. I let them go. Hugs beat breakaways any day. But something really cool happened the rest of the ride…
I caught and dropped these two arrogant goofs all day long. I would catch them, drop them, then stop to see my family. They would ride by me. Then I would catch them and drop them again.
One of my favorite moments of the day was about 62 miles into the ride, I rolled up on them again. As I sat about ten yards behind them I witnessed them berate a poor guy on a hybrid for not moving over fast enough. I made sure to say good morning and talk with hybrid guy a bit before I continued after my quarry.
I came upon Douche #1 (who had berated hybrid guy), got right onto his back wheel – like inches from it – then as loud as I could I yelled, “On your left!” The guy nearly swerved off the road. As I passed Douche #2 I said, “Yeah, me again.”
The next time I saw them was when they crossed the Finish Line… about five minutes after I did.
I finished in barely over five hours and that includes all the hug stops. 78 miles, 5525 feet of gain. And my toes eventually warmed up.
I apologize for not having photos. My family took some and I will get them up here as soon as I can. But for now, know the 2012 Pedal The Cause was my single best performance in a big event ride to date.
I encourage all of you – no matter what fitness level you are at – to participate in charity events like this. Be it cycling, running, whatever, for cancer research or whatever, there is nothing like the feeling of being part of something with so many others, douches notwithstanding.
Go find a ride or a run or a walk and DO IT.
Lastly, thank you to all the volunteers and police officers who helped with Pedal The Cause, and to all those volunteers who help with rides all over the world. These rides are ONLY possible because of the amazing volunteers who do it for no money, no glory, nothing more than to give back. You are the true heroes of these rides.
I was in a rather negative place after my recent under-200/over-200 nightmare. I didn’t want to ride. I wanted to just sit and whine. And depression is always a great excuse to eat crap.
So, I used weather and “busy with family and work stuff” to not ride for a couple of days. And guess what? I missed it. I needed it. I wanted to get back on the bike. But what was interesting was – it wasn’t so much I wanted to get the new weight off… it was I simply I wanted to ride. To enjoy riding again.
I think I had gotten so consumed with numbers – Strava, weight, cadence, speed, blah, blah, blah, that riding had become more work than fun. I wanted it to be fun again.
Now let me pause here to say — I am in NO WAY saying we should not work hard. Especially us clydesdales who need to lose weight – we MUST work hard. But we must have the right attitude. And the right attitude is a positive attitude.
I knew I was going to punish myself on the bike for my weight gain – there must be consequences for our actions. But I also knew that before I did that, I wanted to find the joy in riding again. Remember those Rapha rides I’ve posted about? Where I just rode with no destination or distance in mind? I needed another one of those. So, after a couple of 30-mile jaunts with my boy, I set out yesterday on a Rapha ride.
And started riding directly into a headwind. A nasty headwind. I should have known when I saw these as I rolled out (by the way, this photo has some foreshadowing).
Checking WindAlert.com during the ride, I came to learn that I was riding in a headwind of 12-15mph. Nice touch there, Cycling Gods, for my “joy” ride. But I cranked on, eventually coming to the proverbial fork in the road, and I followed a prong I never had before.
I found new roads, new bike trails, and was really enjoying myself, really enjoying the bike again. At one point, I cruised by a sign for a small city park. The city I was in was St. Charles, Missouri.
Holy crap.
St, Charles is to cyclists what Germany was to Jews in the 40′s.
Okay, perhaps I overstated. Scratch that.
But the city of St. Charles hates cyclists. How much? Well, the good citizens there recently tried to pass legislation to make it ILLEGAL for cyclists to ride on any two-lane roads in the city. I’m not kidding. And it nearly passed, despite the fact it would be counter to existing state laws.
Local cyclists swap stories of cars running riders off the road, throwing objects at them, dumping liquids on them, even hitting them on purpose. You simply do not want to ride in St. Charles.
And there I was, happily pedaling along right smack in the middle of it. But guess what? Everything was cool. I was passed by cars and none honked or crowded me, no one threw crap at me, and no one ran me over. And the roads were beautiful. I saw new sights and new places, and then I happened along this most awesome sight:
Yes, that is a real Patton tank behind the real cannons and cannonballs. I had happened upon a small VFW with one of the most moving memorials I have ever seen. Those that know me from this project know how much respect and appreciation I have for our veterans, like Steve. Those of us living free on this planet can never repay nor properly thank all service men and women who have unselfishly risk (and given) their own lives in order for us to live the way we live.
The memorial’s plaque read:
IN MEMORY OF ALL AMERICAN VETERANS. This memorial honors all American veterans who, although separated by generations, shared a common, undeniable goal — to valiantly protect our country’s freedom.
The memories of these American veterans will continue to live on whenever and wherever democracy exists.
The American veteran – forever a symbol of heroism, sacrifice, loyalty, and freedom.
To say I was moved is an understatement. But my emotions really got out of hand when I saw the gazebo part of the memorial.
This gazebo is named for Joseph “Doc” Keough. Who is Joe Keough, you ask? Joe Keough is one of the few American soldiers who not only STORMED THE BEACH at Normandy (and survived), but was also smack in the middle of the action at the Battle of the Bulge at Ardennes. After the war, he returned to St. Charles and lived there until his death at age 90.
That there, ladies and gentlemen, is a MAN. God bless Joe Keough and all like him.
I took photos, thought about what it takes to be a soldier, wiped my eyes, then remounted The Goat and continued my ride.
St. Charles was good to me. There were even cobbles!
As I made my way out of the city, I rolled up to a red light and was reminded never to take anything for granted — as a guy in a landscaping service truck rolled by me and yelled, “The streets are for cars, not bikes, a*#hole!”
Ah, St. Charles. Never change.
I ended up riding over 43 miles. And it was great. Headwinds and all.
THE PUNISHER
Today, I punished myself. For my weakness, for my laziness, for my apathy and arrogance. As I set out on my ride it was 48 degrees and the wind was blowing. But I knew I had to ride and ride hard. I thought about Joe Keough.
Joe would’ve slapped my face like Patton did that one dude, and said, “Get your tubby ass on that bike, soldier, and ride until you puke!”
I rode. And rode. I climbed. And climbed. I suffered. But I also made it FUN. I rode places I’ve never been and again – God, I love this part of cycling – saw things I would have normally never seen. Beautiful lakes, railroad tracks, golf courses, and found some cool new bike trails.
In the end, I rode almost 63 miles, climb over 4,000 feet, and suffered. To the point that my right leg cramped up a quarter mile from the end. I rode that last part pedaling with one leg.
And I loved every minute of it.
Eat better.
Ride your bike.
Have fun, but be Joe Keough strong.
God bless all veterans, past, present and future. Thank you.
I finally break the 200lbs barrier only to piss it all away 2 weeks later.
Today’s weight: 202.5
Not 199.5. Not 200. Not even 201.
202.5
And there is no other reason than my sheer suckiness.
A little celebratory “I made it, I can relax now” attitude about eating, coupled with not being on the bike as much as I could have been resulted in a gain of over three pounds.
What a waste.
What suckage.
I am angry. I am embarrassed. I suck.
Tomorrow I will hand down my punishment in the form of a sufferfest ride the likes of which this project has never seen.
Until then…
Eat better. Christ in a catcher’s mitt, please EAT BETTER.
Ride your bike. Never put off any length of ride for any reason ever.
An update on my crash injuries… thanks to Johnson & Johnson’s “Tough Pads” (EVERY cyclist should own multiple boxes of these magical squares of medical loveliness), the leg is healed but for some icky looking scabby residue. I’ve ridden over a hundred miles since the crash and no issues whatsoever.
The Goat seems to have benefitted from the fall as he has a renewed sense of Jensness*.
* = “Jensness” having the qualities of Jens Voigt; qualities including but not limited to: ferocity, tenacity, endless endurance, the desire and ability to inflict pain on fellow riders, going faster than you should go, going harder than you should go, telling your legs to shut up.
The Goat now idles impatiently at stop lights, snarls at me during rest stops, and sits by the door at night waiting to pounce the second it’s open. All is good in Fizz’s cycling world.
Thrills
The weigh-in… so after tipping the scales at 200lbs, I was hesitant to weigh myself the following week. So I didn’t. What if I failed (again) to crack the 200 barrier? I figured I’d ride and ride for another two months and then weigh myself… after an hour in the sauna.
But I knew that would not be in the spirit of this project, or my 2012 being accountable commitment. So yesterday I stepped on the scale.
199.
I did it.
BELOW TWO HUNDRED! Hazzah!!! Blow your trumpets, ring your bells, open up your windows and scream to your neighbors “Fizz did it! He got mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore! He did it! He did it!”
Or maybe just crack a smile as you read this.
Hills
Seeing that 199 at my feet inspired an epic ride yesterday. I wanted to ride far and fast, and climb. And I did. 47 miles with an average speed of nearly 16mph, and an assault on Babler.
Those of you who’ve spent some time around here remember Babler – it’s a national park near me that has several miles of beautifully paved, barely trafficked roads… that are all either way up or way down. Nothing flat. And I mean up and down.
My fastest descent ever came at Babler when I hit over 54mph on one of its long 10-15% grade descents. And the climbs? Yikes.
The main climb inside Babler is about a mile and half and averages 13% with three pitches to 17%, including right at the start of the climb. It’s not long by any means, but it’s nasty.
I set a personal best on Babler. Also hit PB’s on three other segments of my ride. All in all, it was an Epic August ride.
Fundraising
Another reason I attacked Babler was because it is part of a 75-mile course I will be riding in October. As you know, I am a big supporter and fundraiser for Livestrong, and pretty much anything that hates cancer. This year I am riding PEDAL THE CAUSE – a local St. Louis ride that raises funds not only for the Siteman Cancer Center (one of the top in the country), but for St. Louis Children’s Hospital’s Pediatric Cancer Ward.
The best thing about Pedal The Cause is 100% of all funds raise go directly to Siteman and StLCH. 100%.
My 9-year-old son will be riding 50 miles of the ride with me, which is awesome. He lost both his grandparents to cancer in the past year and wants to do something special to honor them. 50 miles at age 9 is pretty freaking special.
If any of you feel the urge, we would love it if you would donate to our ride:
We truly appreciate any help you can give, and you could WIN some cool prizes, too!!! Checkout the link for more info.
And please feel free to forward our link on to any friends and family, post it on FB, Twitter, you name it. Thanks for the support!
199.
Feels good.
If you’re reading this and you’re 350lbs, work to hit 345. If you’re 250, work to hit 245. If you’re 160, work to hit 150.
I lack discipline and love to eat and be lazy. And I dropped these pounds without it adversely affecting my day-to-day enjoyment of life. And the reward of seeing those numbers on the scale is worth giving up a year’s worth of yummies. Not that I have, but you get the pic.
199.
I can’t type that enough. For the first time in… forever, I truly believe that my original “in a perfect world” goal of 185 is attainable and not just a pipe dream.
It’s all in the head, folks. Seriously. That’s probably why so many people always called me Fat Head… right?
For some reason, on this particular ride, two images kept floating through my head…
NBC’s replays ad nauseam of Kristin Armstrong’s crash at the Exergy Tour TT in May. This was arguably the greatest female time trial rider on the planet and she crashed making a very simple maneuver she’s done ten thousand times.
The other image was Caleb Fairly’s crash during Stage 5 of the Tour oF Utah — when he was executing an absolutely average turn, with very little traffic, and he just face planted. The excuse was he lost his front wheel when he rolled over the paint – the painted traffic lines on the road. Yes, the old adage in cycling is “Stay off the paint!” — because it gets super slippery when wet, only there was no moisture anywhere on that day.
In both instances it was a seasoned pro making a maneuver they are capable of making with their eyes closed. And there was no rain, no wind, no chipseal, no opposing riders issues at all… and yet, both hit the pavement. Hard.
As I rolled out on Monday, I could still see remnants of wetness from the rains the night before. Maybe that’s what started my negative thoughts and images. Though, in all honesty, the roads were probably 90% dry.
I felt good. Felt strong. Everything was positive. Except… about every 15 minutes or so, the images of Armstrong’s or Fairly’s crashes would suddenly flash through my mind with a little crawl across the bottom that read something like:
They were seasoned professionals, and you’re just a tubby hill slug, there’s no way YOU can stay upright
And then it would be gone. But it got to me. It made me tentative. I descended slower than normal. I rolled through corners slower than normal. And what happens when you ride tight and fearful as opposed to relaxed and confident?
You crash.
Only I didn’t crash. I was 30 miles in, then 35, then 40, and though I kept feeling like I was going to go down, I didn’t. I rode and climbed and descended and spun and TT’d, and the whole time I never came close to crashing.
Then I crashed.
I was trying out a new route – somewhere I’d never ridden – and according to my Google maps recon the night before, I knew that I would have to ride on this one particular road I have avoided ever since I began this project back in 2010.
It is actually a great road for cycling – smooth pavement, twisty curves and a couple of nice rollers. The only thing is — it is a very narrow two-lane road with no bike lane at all. And it is a very heavily trafficked road. And heavy traffic + no bike lane = Fizz don’t ride.
But if I wanted to tackle this new route I knew I was going to have to ride on that road for a tiny bit — maybe a few hundred yards (meters for our lads across the pond). No problem.
So I hit that road and actually got lucky in that the majority of traffic was going the other way and I had very few cars to deal with on my side. I rode quickly, wanting to get to the right turn that was “Carriage Crossing Lane” which would take me back over some new roads and then drop me on TRFKATP.
100 yards went by.
Then 200 yards.
Then 500.
After about a thousand yards, I knew something was wrong. I must have missed it. But how?
I pulled The Goat off the road and onto a sidewalk and checked my iPhone map app. Yep… I missed it. But how? I zoomed in on my map and realized Carriage Crossing Lane actually does NOT connect to the road I was on. It’s a cul-de-sac that butts up against it. You have to get off the bike, hop a small fence and then ride.
How did I miss this the night before? Laziness, I guess.
So now I had to ride back up the other side of this road — the side where there were cars whizzing by every two or three seconds… with no bike lane, and several blind turns. With the Speed Limit being 40mph, the thought of me cranking hard just to sustain 20mph while a line of angry motorists lines up behind me was something I did not want to experience.
So what to do? I know! I will ride back on this nice little sidewalk right here. It’s early Monday morning, there is probably no foot traffic. And it will take me right back to Carriage Crossing Lane and I will be on my way.
So I began riding on the sidewalk. I had to duck every so often due to the overhanging trees, and did notice at one point that there was a bit more standing water on the sidewalk than out on the road where the sun had dried it all.
100 yards.
200.
500.
I noticed the sidewalk ahead was winding through beautifully landscaped bushes and trees, and I thought about how it was far too elegant to be maintained by the city — it must be by the Homeowners Association of this gorgeous neighborhood next to me.
Big beautiful homes, with glistening swimming pools, and golf course like backyards, and…
Now, just like Smokin’ Joe, I was back up immediately, doing that thing all men do – where, no matter how injured you may be – you are looking around, nodding, saying something like, “Yep, no worries, meant to do that.”
I looked back at the sidewalk and saw this:
I had ridden straight into mud. In a turn. And when you ride straight into mud on 1-inch tires, AND THEN try to turn…
You crash.
I crashed.
I hit the mud just as I was turning my bars into the turn that I felt was coming. I say felt because…
I was not looking where I was going. I was admiring the lovely homes on my left. I saw the mud about a nanosecond before impact with the concrete.
The Goat survived better than I did.
My shoulder looked similar.
Once I regained my faculties, I realized the cul-de-sac known as “Carriage Crossing Lane” was no more than about 40 yards from where I went down. So close.
I cleaned the mud from between my brake calipers and fork, then walked The Goat to the cul-de-sac, lifted it over the little 3-foot high fence, and continued on my ride… as blood ran down into my shoe.
It wasn’t Johnny Hoogerland type stuff, but as I pedaled passed a couple walking their dog, and saw their eyes bulge at my bloody leg, I thought, “That’s right. I’m a mother*#&@*%# cyclist, baby!”
It was about 7 or so miles to home, and I managed fine. Over the next few days the damage assessment came in:
One leg with severe road rash.
One shoulder with minor road rash and slight bruising.
One bruised tibia bone.
One bruised ankle bone.
The Goat was just muddy.
In the end, the crash images and all that negative thinking had nothing to do with my going down. It was me losing my concentration for just a few seconds. They call it “pilot error” in flying. In cycling it’s called “Being a doofus.”
Or is it dufus?
Here’s a couple of fairly interesting points… if any of you are even still reading this:
One of the absolute best things you can do for a post-crash leg injury is get back on the bike. If you have a bruised bone as I did, or severe road rash (as I do), getting back on and doing a light but high cadence spin for at least 45 minutes actually breaks up some sort of junk inside your injured leg and “cleanses it” so to speak. I’m too tired right now to look up the specifics, but take my word for it.
After three days of intense leg pain at times – to the point I had scheduled an appointment for an x-ray – going out and riding took away not only all the pain, but the swelling I had, too. Gotta love cycling.
The other thing is… my friend and writing/riding compadre – Little Joey Choo Choo – had been on me for a while to shave my legs. Like any “real” cyclist would do. But I have always refused for no other reason than I think those skinny, shaven, pro kit wearing, Cervelo riding serious cyclists would be the only folks who’d even notice if I shaved, and chances are they would laugh even harder at a big fat hill slug with shaved legs, than a just big fat hairy hill slug.
I let my ego get in the way — thinking that shaved legs were only for guys who race Cat 3 on weekends and weigh 160 pounds.
Nope. You shave your legs so when you do go down – AS WE ALL WILL – you heal up much quicker and cleaner.
Yes, my legs are now shaved. But you gotta wait for those pics. At least until after you’ve digested your meal.
Does any word feel as good? While I miss, dearly miss, Cycling Mecca and its amazing climbs with their unsurpassed views, there is something about riding in your own ‘hood that feels… just good.
After a spin with my son and a ride where Hal 9000 wasn’t working properly, I finally set out for a full-on Rapha Ride to celebrate my return home.
I rode over familiar roads that felt like old friends. I discovered that the RFKATP has major construction on it and thus, I cannot ride its full 6 miles. Almost in the exact middle they are redoing the entire road and there is literally nowhere for a cyclist to go.
That really bummed me out because now that I have become a Strava member, I was really looking forward to challenging myself on its rollers. But there were many other old friends to get reacquainted with.
There was the TdC Hill, which I have now re-named “Ossenfort.” Makes sense, since that is the name of the actual road, and the TdC thing is sort of dated now (since that was from my first ever group ride back in 2010), and well, let’s be honest – Ossenfort is just a cool name for a climb.
Ossenfort… sounds like a Giro climb. Or a Bond villain. “Do you expect me to talk, Ossenfort?” “No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die.”
And the climb is definitely a Bond villain. To remind dear readers – Ossenfort is a half-mile climb that averages about 11% with pitches to 18%. According to Strava, I am the 159th fastest out of the 205 Strava riders who’ve ascended Ossenfort.
“Do you expect me to suffer, Ossenfort?” “No, Mr. Fizz. I expect you to fail.”
But I digress.
So I went up Ossenfort, went up the Wild Horse Creek climb – a (Strava) Cat 4 climb of about a mile and a half, went up the Six Flags climb, and another short stinger of a climb called Orrville. The next day I tackled my old nemesis Hog Hollow. And while I went up it faster than I’ve ever ascended that stinging little sonofamother, I was still slogging up the thing, suffering, as if I was carrying an 25 pounds on my back… oh, that’s right. I am.
The climbing was a lot for my homeland (nearly 3000 feet), but nothing more than bumps compared to the Mulhollands, Piumas, and Stunts of Cycling Mecca. Bumps they may be, but I am still grinding up them, sweating and suffering, and loving every painful second.
Oh, did I mention weight earlier? Yes. That’s right, I owe you all a weigh-in.
200 pounds.
Yes. 200. I checked it twice. Not 199, not 201, 200 on the nose.
A combination of joy and frustration pedaled through me as I stood staring down at the numbers. Joy for having gotten to within a single pound of the lightest I’ve been since I began this project… and frustration for getting to within a pound of the lightest I’ve been since I began this project, but not cracking the 200 mark. Ah, what might have been.
But getting down to 200 is incredibly motivating. For those of you out there battling the same Whispering Jabberwock, here are a few things to remember:
1 – Everyone goes through their time on the edge – just ask Jules and Billy Hicks from ST. ELMO’S FIRE. Meaning… we all screw up and fall back and make mistakes – just check the archives of this blog to see that – so don’t let it throw you. Just start over again the next day and do better.
2 – No matter how incredible the bad food tastes in the moment, it NEVER compares to the incredible feeling of success and satisfaction when you deny yourself and see the pounds drop.
3 – No matter how much you’re hurting or struggling on the bike, you can always go a little longer. Endure a little more. Always.
4 – Never do it globally. Do it One Day At a Time. Not a cliche – it’s true. Fact. One day at a time. You will ride today. You will eat healthy today. You will not make any excuses today. One day at a time.
And most importantly of all…
5 – You are better than you think you are. You can do more than you think you can.
So, once again it is time for me to bid farewell to Cycling Mecca and return home to the land of rolling hills, short climbs, terrarium-like humidity and TRFKATP.
I have not been around much since my 100 Miles of Nowhere report. I had to venture back to Portland for quite a while, and work has taken up most of the time I used to spend typing away on this little corner of cyberspace. So let’s recap…
I set a PR in May for most miles in a month at 406.
In July I spent most of my time in Portland, and my hours on set leave little time for cycling. Mostly, I sit and stare at these…
But you will notice that Leverage is Bicycle Friendly! So even if I’m sitting indoors not riding, I can imagine being outdoors and riding. However, mostly I just sit… occasionally we will decapitate a panda, but that’s only on special days.
But I did manage to get outside one day and ride. It was beautiful, and I started out over the water near downtown.
Then rode out to the Columbia River – about 25 miles from where I started. The day was so clear you could see Mount Hood in the background – still snow-covered.
While in Portland, I made a point of eating really, really healthy. And guess what? I liked it. Instead of ordering burgers and fries from room service, I was going out (walking) and dining on fish and scallops and steak, asparagus, squash, and other assorted veggies that – if they are roasted or grilled or steamed – I truly enjoy.
Fat Guy tip #33 — anything can taste good with enough seasoning and/or proper cooking.
So, while I was not riding a lot, I knew I was keeping the weight off. And when I returned to Cycling Mecca I could not wait to ride. And what should pop up on my first day back in town? Harlene.
I wrote about Harlene a couple of posts back. She is a killer. In the best sense. She never met a distance too far or an elevation gain too high. She will ride forever. And then ride some more.
So on this weekend when our cycling club traditionally offers rides anywhere from 15 to 60 miles, Harlene decided it would be a good day to ride a century. Why not? Sun was out, but it wasn’t too hot, there was wind, but not too much. Let’s do 100!
So we did. Eleven of us total started out at 8am to ride an “out-and-back” route along the Pacific. We’d stop at 50 miles, eat, then ride back. And the best part for me – coming off of 2 weeks in PDX – was that there was not much climbing at all.
It would be a flat century. One short hill toward the 45-mile mark and that was it.
Here is our motley peloton at our first rest stop, about 25 miles in.
We rode along marinas and beaches, and the entire day was absolutely gorgeous.
We even rode along a Naval Air Base that had some interesting items out front.
I will leave it to Steve to tell us what we are looking at, but I think one might be an old F-4 Phantom and an F-14 Tomcat? Plus some missiles. I’d have taken better photos, but one thing you must know when you are riding with Harlene – you only stop at designated rest stops or maybe for someone’s mechanical issue. You never stop for such silliness as taking photos.
The day was great and after the ride I felt like I could do another 30 miles. That night, the legs squawked a little bit, but I was glad to have another century under my lycra for the year. I knew the next day would be y last chance to ride in Cycling Mecca this year, and I wanted to go out strong. So, despite doing 100 miles on Saturday, when Sunday morning came, I set out for Rock Store.
I could not leave Cycling Mecca without climbing one more time, and while I pondered going up Piuma, or Mulholland, or Stunt, or any of the other big climbs with amazing views at the top, I opted for Rock Store. It’s the Alpe d’Huez of Cycling Mecca – there are longer, tougher climbs, but none with the history and panache of Rock Store.
I hit Rock Store with all I had. And I crushed it. I joined Strava recently, and while it leaves a lot to be desired as far as software and accuracy, it’s a lot of fun from a social fitness standpoint. You can find me there be searching for Fizzhogg.
Anyway, Strava does this fun thing where you can measure you efforts against not just yourself, but others. I won’t go into it here, but do NOT trust the Strava accuracy when it comes to the KOMs and other such comparisons between riders. There are far too many instances of inaccuracy to make the competitions valid.
But for measuring oneself against oneself it is pretty cool. There are all these “segments” people have created – certain sections of rides – where you can see your time versus everyone else who has ridden that particular section or “segment.” But I like to use it to look at my previous times and see how/where I can improve.
I digress about Strava because I used it to measure myself going up Rock Store (and several other segments on my ride) and I hit PR’s (Personal Records) on nearly every part of the ride. I went up Rock Store faster than I ever have, and did it on my very last ride in Cycling Mecca. It was a perfect way to end my 2012 in California. Now, for the good news…
When we last stepped on the scale (May 19) we were at 206.
This morning we weighed in at — drum roll please — 202.
Down another four and dropping. I can see sub-200 in my headlights. I have headlights cuz I have man-boobs cuz I still need to drop 25 pounds. But I digress.
When you hear from me next, I will be back in the rolling hills of St. Louis and hopefully will have cracked the 200 pound barrier.
Forgive me for the delayed posting here. Work has become… work. Back to Portland, back to CM, back to Portland, back to… you get the picture. Anyway, the 2012 100 MILES OF NOWHERE:
Ouch.
Prior to the weekend of this ride, I always felt like – I don’t mind century rides at all… never stopping to think that I’ve really only ever completed… one.
I guess for anyone reading this who was not around last year, it’s best you take a moment and read exactly what happened to me during the 2011 100 Miles Of Nowhere.
Okay, finished? Got the picture? Not pretty on its own, and horrendously ugly with the whole Gordon Lightfoot thing.
So this year I decided to return to that same route in Agoura Hills and take my revenge. I knew where I’d made my mistakes, both in food/drink and music. This year I would fuel myself better and more regularly. I would not go “Contador” on the hill early, but rather “Schleck” it the entire way.
Contador = out of the saddle, dancing on the pedals. Schleck = sitting and spinning.
And the music… no Gordon Lightfoot within a hundred kilometers of my iPod. (I use kilometers for our readers across the pond)
The night before, I created an entirely new playlist – 4 and a half hours of music, no Lightfoot, and lots of Rapha music.
I had Gu’s, I had energy bars, I had a perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I had fruit, I had Gu Brew, and I had water. Where you ask did I have this plethora of cycling fuel?
I had something this year that I did not have last year… a SAG Wagon.
That’s right. Support and Gear. Mostly support. My trusty planet-destroying SUV would serve as the official 100MON SAG Wagon.
Last year I rolled right out of the place I was living and began riding the Loop. This year, I drove over to the Loop, parked the SAG Wagon and then began with a warm up. And for the first ten miles everything was working like a perfectly tuned Swiss watch. Or German rather. Say a Lange & Sohne Datagraph.
I warmed up for about six or seven miles around the neighborhood, spinning lightly with a little climbing. In the true spirit of the 100 Miles of Nowhere I found a tiny circle approximately 200 meters ’round, and rode around it again and again until I had done one mile. That was a lot of circles.
Then it was off to the Loop – site of last year’s epic fail.
Around and around I went, my music playing, my legs spinning up each climb and cruising down each descent. Then, on one of my loops I noticed some large trucks rumbling up the street. Another loop around and suddenly I was dodging all sorts of debris and trucks and humans in orange vests.
They had decided to trim trees on this very street on this very Saturday morning. They set up a detour that was no big deal for cars, but really took the teeth out of the climbing part of my Loop. Crap. How can I do my MacArthuresque return if I can’t ride the same Loop?
Find another one.
And I did. From mile 18 to mile 22 I rode around a loop that did not have quite the same elevation gain, but would still be quite adequate for the 100MON. Why you ask, did I say only to mile-22?
Because at mile-22 my chain broke.
No, it didn’t drop. It broke. As in… in half.
I have a video of me walking back to the SAG Wagon, The Goat over my shoulder, whining about my broken chain. I won’t pain you with those sounds and images.
I drove about 30 minutes to All Pro Bikes - where I purchased The Goat, and saw the amazing Gina. Let me pause here to tell you about the amazing Gina…
Imagine one part Marisa Tomei, one part Rebecca Rusch, and one part the Angie Gennaro character from Dennis Lehane’s Kenzie/Gennaro novels, and you have the amazing Gina. Gina and the stellar folks at All Pro commented that they had never seen a chain break like this. Ever.
They promptly gave me a new chain, lubed and checked The Goat and I was ready to roll again for the price of $0.00.
I love the amazing Gina and All Pro Bikes.
But after the 30 minute drive-time, the 30 minutes at the shop, I knew that another 30 minute drive back to Agoura Hills was going to severely cut into my riding time. And I did not want to spend all day on this stupid 100MON <<foreshadowing!
I made an executive decision. I decided I would continue the 100MON in the truest spirit of the ride and just start riding right there in the parking lot of All Pro Bikes. So I did. Around and around the parking lot. Then around and around the neighborhood streets surrounding All Pro Bikes.
Around and around and…
Around.
I pulled up to the SAG Wagon at one point and checked the mileage. 42 miles down. I was feeling great. Like really great. I’m sure the hour rest during the broken chain mishap and the lack of any climbing over the last 20 miles helped. I knew this wasn’t right. I knew this wasn’t in the true spirit of the 100MON.
The 100MON is about suffering. We don’t ride in annoyingly tiny circles or climb unclimbable heights or put ourselves through day-long Sufferfests for fun. We do it to raise money and awareness of what true suffering really is. To try and help those with cancer.
I was not suffering enough.
So I went in search of hills. I found one just a few miles from All Pro Bikes. It was perfect – almost no traffic, and a nearly straight half-mile climb up, and half-mile descent down. Only about a 4-5% grade on the climb, but doing it over and over and over would eventually make it feel like Mount Washington. Right?
Wrong.
I rode this thing again and again from mile 40-something to mile 60-something, and I was still feeling great. Feeling no pain as they say. I started pushing it up the hill and down the other side. Faster. Faster. Eventually, I had completed 2/3 of the 100MON and felt like I’d been on a 40-mile ride. I was feeling too good. There was only thing to do.
I loaded up the SAG Wagon and headed for Rock Store.
Rock Store. Probably the most famous climb in all of Cycling Mecca. Two and half miles with an average grade of 7.3% with a few pitches to 10%. The fact that it doesn’t ever pitch up to 15% or 18% doesn’t mean it’s easier, it means that the average rarely dips below 7.3%.
My best time up Rock Store is about 21 minutes. And that was when I was in my very best riding shape. And that was without 2/3 of a 100MON tacked on the front of the ride.
I drove over to where my cycling club meets for our weekend rides. From there the ride to Rock Store arrives after about 12 or so miles of rollers. I SAG’d up, and started riding. Shadows were growing longer, and after cranking up and over the rollers, I was beginning to get that feeling of suffering I’d been wishing for.
Be careful what you wish for.
I hit Rock Store and started climbing. 75 miles into the 100MON. It hurt. I suffered. I remember thinking – during one particularly painful switchback – “Why the hell didn’t I just keep riding the little half-mile climb over by All Pro Bikes? Oh yeah, because I wasn’t suffering enough… oh, yeah, and I’m a complete idiot.”
Thank God for music. And – yes, I’m about to say it – thank God for George Michael.
There I said. And I ain’t taking it back.
Because let me drop some science on you, peeps. As bad as The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald is when you are suffering on a bike, and it is disastrously, colossally, magnificently bad — that is exactly how good George Michael’s FREEDOM is.
Yes. Freedom. Yes. The one with the video of Linda Evangelista and Christy T and Cindy and all the SuperModels (back when there still were SuperModels) singing the tune. This one:
Uh, huh. Try it. I’m serious. Put it on your playlist and go climb a mountain or ride at a 20+mph pace for a while and see what it does to your legs.
So, yeah, back to Rock Store. Pain. Suffering. Freedom.
Glory through suffering.
I made it up Rock Store. I was done, right? WooHoo!
I descended as fast as I could with my brain and body turning to mush – which was not fast at all. It was one of the scariest descents I’ve ever done because, quite frankly, I was in a complete FF.
Fatigue Fog.
I remember starting the descent – passing the dude on the side with the yellow Ducati – and then the next thing I remember is… being back at the SAG Wagon. I don’t even remember riding back over the rollers.
I ate an apple at the SAG Wagon and checked Hal 9000 again… 89 miles.
Crap.
Shut up, George.
11 miles to go. I was going to fail again.
The sun was setting on Cycling Mecca and on my 100MON. I was freezing now – yes, freezing in May. I thought, “Just get to 95 miles. Go farther than last year.”
I started riding. Turned right out of the parking lor, rode down a ways, turned right again, rode, turned right again, rode and turned right again. I was back where I started and…
I had gone exactly one mile.
Once around this place is one mile… all I need is to ride around it ten more times. I started pedaling.
I had removed the iPod after returning from Rock Store. I don’t know why. Like I said, these last miles were completed in a total fatigue fog.
I rode another lap. 9 miles to go… another 8. Then another… 7 miles to go. The sun nearly down now, and shivering on the bike.
I rode back to the SAG Wagon and grabbed my rain jacket. Not a cycling rain jacket, mind you, but an actual regular rain jacket. I didn’t care. I was freezing. I zipped up and started riding again.
Another lap. 6 miles to go. Then another. 5 miles. I had broken last year’s epic fail! That inspired me and I stood out of the saddle and cranked it. Another lap. Then another.
At 97 miles in I must have looked like an absolute crazy person. Riding as fast as I could, in a full rain jacket in 60 degree weather. And I think I was laughing.
The laughter of the criminally insane.
2 miles to go.
1.
One mile left to COMPLETE my first ever 100 Miles Of Nowhere.
I did it. Epic success. Okay, not epic, but take a look at this freaking elevation profile:
George Michael, David Fincher and everyone involved with the song and video for FREEDOM – without whom I’d still be out there riding
And lastly, thank you to all of you. Seriously. There was more than one time out there when I thought that if I quit, I was going to have to face all of you around here. So thank you for tuning in and spending time with me and my neurosis. I love you all. Except the one creepy guy in the back there.
Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor — Alexis Carrel
Glory through suffering — Rapha
I am in love with the suffering – Fizzhogg
Dateline Cycling Mecca, nineteenth day of May, in the year of our Lord two thousand and twelve:
I rolled up to the start of our club’s weekly rides all happy and peppy and bursting with love (100 pts if you know that reference without Googling). I was prepared and planning on doing the Gold ride – about 36 miles, about 3000 ft of climbing. A nice, strong yet safe Saturday ride.
Then Harlene showed up.
Let me tell you about Harlene. Harlene is in her 60′s, rides a sinister black Franco, and climbs like a Himalayan sherpa. Meaning, she might not be the fastest up the hill, but she will climb anything and everything without stopping. Ever.
I love Harlene. She is fun and smart and always up for extra miles… or extra elevation gain.
Harlene convinces my happy and peppy self to ride the Orange ride with her. Telling me it’s not that much more than the Gold… “Something like 45 miles with about 4000 ft of climbing.”
“Uh…”
“It’ll be great,” Harlene says. “We’ll go at our own pace.” Then she goes and recruits four other unassuming Gold riders like myself to join her in this Sufferfest.
So off we go… little lambs to slaughter.
But after my fried chicken debacle, I wanted to suffer. I needed to suffer. I had been punishing myself for over a week by eating healthy, now it was time to punish myself on The Goat.
As we cruised along toward our destination – a nasty 6.4 mile climb (avg 7.2%) known as “Piuma” – Harlene reiterated how much fun it would be, how we’d go at our pace, and how it’s really not that bad.
Cut to:
The several rollers we had to navigate in order to get to Piuma, because Harlene “accidentally” led us down a wrong turn.
Uh, huh.
I checked Hal 9000 as we refilled our bottles at the base of the climb. We had already done almost 1600 ft of climbing. Just to get to the climb.
Then, one of the actual Orange riders mentions that we should take care to watch out for the false summit.
“Huh?”
Yes, after you’ve climbed and climbed and climbed, there’s a descent. About .4 of a mile. You’re way up high so you think you’re at the end of the climb.
But you’re not. Because after the descent, there’s a left turn and then another 1.7 miles to the actual summit. “And the last part is the steepest.”
Thank you, Orange person. Please go away from me now.
As much as I did not want to hear that, I was thankful he told us. Because there is little worse than thinking you’ve completed a climb, only to discover you have nearly two more miles of climbing.
We started the climb, and Harlene – true to her word as always – led her little lambs at the back of the Orange group. All of whom very quickly disappeared up the climb. Just us lambs now.
Baaahhaaahhhhaaahh.
I decided I would conserve as much energy as possible in the beginning so as to save it for that final ascent. I rode at the back of the lamb group for the first mile or so, and I must say, while I was not going fast, I was enjoying the climb. The more we climbed, the more I realized we were headed for the clouds.
That’s not fancy writer talk… I men we were riding literally toward a cloud which engulfed the summit of the climb. At one flat part about 2 miles in, I paused for a Steve moment:
That’s where we were heading.
On I pedaled.
Up, up, up. Suffer, suffer, suffer.
But I was feeling good. I had not pushed myself this hard in a while – not counting that idiotic day I blew up within 6 miles of my place.
And the views were spectacular. As we hit the point where the descent started, I managed one more “Steve” – of course, the real Steve would never get his finger stuck in the frame:
We were in the cloud now, and could look back down from whence we pedaled.
I did well on the descent, passing all the lambs, and gathering strength – mental and physical – for the assault on the final section.
As I climbed that last section, I watched Hal 9000′s report on my heart rate, and tried to stay at what I guessed was just below my redline.
The last 300 yards of the climb is only about a 3-4% grade and you can see everyone waiting at the summit. Seeing everyone waiting, seeing it grow closer, is nearly as inspiring as when people cheer for you along the road. I hammered it.
At the top I felt great. Great in that I challenged my lazy self, suffered, and came out alive.
I’d gone from lamb to sheep.
We descended the other side, and I was FLYING. I managed a glance down at Hal and saw I was over 38mph and gaining speed, leaning into and out of the corners like Sammy Sanchez. I was back, baby! I am a cycling beast! I could crush Little Joey Choo Choo!
I tapped the brakes just before another corner, let off, put my weight on the outside pedal, and leaned in at nearly 40mph… damn, I must have looked so cool.
That’s when a guy passed me so fast it was as if I was standing on the side of the road with a cowbell.
Oh, and he passed me with one hand.
How do I know he was riding with one hand? Because, as he zoomed through this corner, the hand that was not on his bars was outstretched, giving me a big thumbs up.
Like, “Good job, Fatso!”
And once again, the old Fizz is put in his proper cycling place.
In the end it was a 47-mile ride with 4400 feet of climbing. Not a bad day.
I suffered. I hurt. But it felt so good… that fried chicken from two weeks ago felt like it was months ago.
Sometimes you have to wreck yourself in order to check yourself.
I cannot tell you how angry I am at myself for that debacle last week. I was losing a pound a week without riding and I gave it all away.
To punish myself and to get back on the descent, I am going to ride longer and harder this week than I have in months… and I am denying myself any crap food.
Because I suck.
Today I awoke very excited to ride. I’ve been watching the Giro d’Italia this week – a race I love as much as the Tour de France. The Giro is often more brutal than the “Tour” and the scenery is absolutely astounding.
Channeling Coppi, the Pirate, and Basso, I rode more than I have since early March. Tomorrow I plan the same. And I will ride during the week – even if it gets me fired.
Please don’t fire me.
My ride today was truly great. A nice combination of group riding and solo. I’ve typed much around here about how much I love my club, and love riding with a club.
I’ve also written about my Rapha rides, where being alone and discovering new worlds is heaven.
I had not ridden with CVC in a while and so this morning I had promised some very nice folks in the “Purple” group that I would ride with them, and catch up on everyone’s lives.
The Purple group is our club’s beginner level group. The rides are usually between 18 and 24 miles, at an easy pace, with much stopping to regroup. No one is dropped. It is a very cool thing my club does to introduce folks to the wonders of cycling.
I rode over to the starting point (about 8 miles from my place) and then proceeded to embark on my first Purple ride since January of 2010. It was great. Lots of chatting, lots of stopping, fixed someone’s flat, helped fix a dropped chain. All in all a great time.
At the end of the 21-mile ride, I decided to get some more miles in by myself. I took off with no destination in mind. I rode over some familiar roads that felt like old friends, and I find some new roads.
The shot above was taken on one of the new roads I discovered. A nice, long, slightly rolling route that traveled through areas like that, as well as horse farms where I saw two newborn colts. Why didn’t I stop and photograph them? Steve would be ashamed.
My new road took me into a little town center I had ridden by before, but never stopped at. Today I stopped. And found a Mini Cooper Club having their monthly gathering.
I spoke to one owner and asked if it was possible to fit a bike into the back of one of those. After all, they are pretty freaking cool, and get nine million miles to the gallon. He said he has a road bike that he hauls all over town.
“You just take both wheels off.”
Both? Eh, no thanks. I’m good with removing the front wheel to load a bike into a car, but both wheels? Too much hassle for this lazy Hill Slug.
I rode on.
Eventually, I ended up back home, just over 48 miles on Hal 9000, and just over 2200 feet of ascent.
Speaking of Hal 9000… he, uh, had a little issue on one of my rides last week.
According to Hal, about 36 miles into my ride, I suddenly made a hard right turn and rode straight into the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
It was my longest single ride to date: 2,387 miles according to Hal. But the best part was how fast I was riding.
My average speed was 857mph.
That was my average.
Now I did feel a tailwind, just before I hit the water, but I didn’t think it was quite that strong. Let’s see Mark Cavendish do that!
I submitted my Garmin info to the Guinness Book of World Records, but they returned my letter with a nice cease and desist order.
Tomorrow I think I will do another combo of group/solo riding. I rather enjoyed today.
Greetings, dear readers. I want to invite you to come inside my mind.
No, really, it’s okay, come on in. There’s plenty of empty space. Just me, some arcane sports trivia, most of the dialogue from the 1981 movie THIEF, a great chicken cacciatore recipe and… my addiction.
Addiction is a cunning, baffling opponent. Be it heroin, cocaine, booze, meth, nicotine, porn, or food. And while the reasons for addiction are varied – depression, self-esteem, abuse, self-medication, blah, blah, blah, once we’re all in the dark, we are all in the dark.
I am a food addict. Or rather, an eating addict. A recovering eating addict.
And like all recovering heroin or meth or nicotine addicts, regardless of how many days, weeks, months or years I’ve been clean, I am always only one bad decision away from falling back down the rabbit hole.
But lately I have been taking it to the Whispering Jabberwock known as addiction. I’ve been on this pound-a-week descent and doing it not by riding miles upon miles, but by controlling my addiction.
210… 209… 208… and then last week’s weight…
207.
207lbs. The lightest I’ve been all year.
Without any significant riding.
Not only am I not riding much at all, but it’s not like I’m eating healthy. Not like one of those people who eat incredibly healthy all the time, like Sam Bangs. Okay, no one eats as healthy as Sam. But you know what I mean.
All I’m doing is not eating at night, and focusing on portion control.
And I’m losing weight.
And this brings me to why I’ve invited you all inside my mind. Inside the mind of an addict.
See, the Whispering Jabberwock knows when I’m controlling my addiction. When I’m refusing to let it control me. And being a cunning, baffling opponent, the Whispering Jabberwock never gives up. Ever. And is always working, always plotting and planning.
One of its most successful ploys is the “celebration dip.” You’ve all been there – when you lose a bunch of weight or hit a certain goal and the Whispering Jabberwock convinces you to celebrate with just a little something – a beer or cake or pizza, etc. “It’ll be okay… after all, you just lost a bunch of weight. You’ve got room for this.”
And so you do, and he has you again.
But lately the Whispering Jabberwock has been failing. I’ve been dominating him. So he changed his tactics.
What follows is exactly what happened the day I stepped on the scale and it read 207…
I stepped on expecting perhaps a pound gained because I knew I hadn’t ridden and knew I’d had my moules-frites whining meal, and had this nagging feeling that this can’t continue, this non-riding descent. Then I saw 207.
And the FIRST thing that went through my mind was not joy, or elation, or relief… the first thing that went through my mind was:
“The scale must be broken. There’s no way I could be down to 207.”
No satisfaction, no pride, nothing but an immediate conviction that there was no way I could be that small.
You think the Whispering Jabberwock stopped there? No, dear readers, he attacked again.
What I found myself doing that day and the next was purposely eating way too much — in order to make sure the scale was working properly. Wait, what?
That’s right. My addiction convinced myself within seconds of my new weight that I did not deserve it, that there was no way it could be right, and that the only way to prove it was to eat a whole bunch of food over the next week, then weigh in again — if the scale still says 207 (or less) then I know it’s broken.
So that day and the over the next day I ate fried chicken and other bad stuff, and too much of it, ate at night, and basically put a gun in my mouth.
Late on the second day of this brilliant move by the Whispering Jabberwock, I had just finished my fourth piece of fried chicken, polished off the mashed potatoes and gravy that came with it, and for some reason, was feeling like complete crap.
Was I sick again? No… then what was it?
And then it hit me. My body was reacting to this poison I was putting in it. Then I realized it wasn’t even tasting good.
WTF am I doing? Seriously??? The scale might be broken so I better eat enough to gain weight to find out???
I sat there in complete shock of what I’d done over the last 48 hours. Of course the scale wasn’t broken. How would that ridiculous idea ever get inside my mind?
Oh.
The Whispering Jabberwock.
Motherf*#@er.
I did all I could the rest of the week to fix it, but the damage had been done.
208.5
Guess what, doofus, your scale WORKS.
My name is Fizzhogg and I am an addict.
I have been clean for three days.
Eat better.
Ride your bike.
Kick the Whispering Jabberwock right between the legs.
So today began as a very exciting day for me. The day I get back on the bike. After more than 5 weeks off (the one 40-miler in PDX notwithstanding) I have been dying to get back on The Goat and back onto the roads of Cycling Mecca.
And with my wispy 208 lbs bod, well, the next ride was sure to be a humdinger.
But I’m an experienced cyclist. I know the in’s and out’s of listening to one’s body, proper fuel and hydration, etc. I know about warming up correctly, and all about bonking, gassing, cooking, blowing up, and how to avoid all of the above.
**FORESHADOWING***
I decided that, being the intelligent and experienced cyclist I am, I would not push it the first time back. I would just go for a good 24-mile or so ride with maybe 1600 feet or so of climbing, nothing major, but nothing rough for me and my barely-there 208 lbs bod.
I would take a flat 2.5 mile road from my place to Mulholland, turn left, then roll by the Biggest Loser compound on my way up about 6 or so miles of climbing – but easy climbing. Like barely a 4% average, with a few rollers sprinkled throughout.
If I was feeling particularly jaunty, I’d head up 7-Minute Hill at that point in the ride. If not, no worries – I’d just continue on, make a big loop around, do a bit more roller-type climbing, then head home. Nice and easy. First time back and all.
I pumped the Gatorskins on The Goat for the first time in over five weeks, and my layoff apparently affected my depth perception as I smashed my finger with the Joe Blow pump to the point that I had to sit and ice it for half an hour. It is dark purple as I type. Was this an omen? Never! I’m a carbon-fiber-like 208 lbs, baby! I’m gonna ride no matter what!
I was so amped for this ride, in fact, that even the threat of rain did not deter me. I donned my Rapha magical jersey, stuffed my Hincapie rain jacket into a pocket, loaded up with Gu’s and water, and rolled off.
Then turned around at the end of my parking lot because I’d forgotten my sunglasses.
After a double-check that I finally had all I needed, I rolled off. Hal 9000 started his math, and as I hit that 2.5 mile stretch of road leading to Mulholland I found myself thinking back to the images of Liege-Bastogne-Liege and Fleche Wallonne I’d seen recently. What gets you more pumped for riding than watching the pros in the spring classics?
I bet some of those guys only weigh 208 lbs.
Before I knew what was happening I was averaging 28mph over this 2.5 mile road. I felt GREAT. I was in Liege-Bastogne-Liege, baby, and I was on a breakaway! But then my intelligent, experienced cyclist mind kicked in and reminded me that I was less than 5 minutes into my ride… perhaps cranking at 28mph was not smart.
Ah, but I quickly decided that it wasn’t me – it was the crosswind with a semi-tailwind that I had convinced myself was a gale force tailwind that was propelling my feathery 208 lbs at over 28mph.
I hit Mulholland with full force and rocketed myself up the road, jumping out of the saddle and dancing on the pedals at every stinging roller. I was flying. I was Rolland on Alpe d’Huez. I was Rodriguez on the Mur de Huy.
And let me pause here to point out to those of you who are waiting for the falling shoe… I was feeling AWESOME.
I felt strong and fast and light, and thus, pushed harder, and thus, went faster. 208 lbs is just like weighing 145 lbs, apparently. I was loving every minute of this ride.
Until I had to stop because I could not pedal anymore.
Until I had to stop because I was moments from vomiting.
Until I had to stop and pray that a giant truck with a texting driver would crest the hill and permanently put me out of my misery because CYCLING IS THE WORST FREAKING THING IN THE WORLD.
There’s that shoe.
I was cooked. Exploded. Gassed. Dead.
And the best part?
I was just over six miles into my ride.
Now, I knew I would recover. You always recover. I learned that the first year of this project on the Unfat Machine.
You will always recover.
But I didn’t care. In that moment on the side of Mulholland, I didn’t care if I ever recovered. Bury me right there. Put up a little cross with a sign that reads “He only weighed 208 lbs.”
Even if I did recover, I did not want to pedal anymore.
Unless it was in the other direction. The direction of my apartment which I remembered held… a bed.
Bed. Sleep.
Yes. That’s what would get me to clip back in… ride to the mattress, young Fizz.
And so I did.
As I rolled downhill and began to recover, I noticed that the feeling of nausea was not leaving. The more I rode the sicker I felt.
Bed… sleep…
I got to the end of Mulholland and turned back onto the 2.5 mile road.
Only 2.5 miles from sleep. This encouraged me because I remembered how quickly the 2.5 miles went by way back at the beginning of the ride.
Way back all those… minutes ago.
I pause here, dear readers, to drop some cycling science on you. So grab your notebooks and get ready to be enlightened. Here it is:
2.5 miles goes by much quicker if you’re averaging 28mph with a semi-tailwind, than if you’re averaging 13mph with a semi-headwind.
Yep. Heard it here first.
I felt like I was on that road for hours. I may still be on that road.
Another week of zero riding… and another week of weight loss.
208.
Yes. 208lbs. Without a single mile on the bike!
It can be done, people. Portion control, and not eating at night.
Now, listen, I am not a good eater. I still loves me some fried food and pasta and all that. But I have stopped eating chips (crisps) this year, and I’ve had maybe… three orders of fries this spring. Make that four if I count my eating contest with Fatty of FatCyclist that was held in Portland. (I won, by the way)
But other than that, I still eat Chinese food, lots of pasta with sauces, cheese, and other yummy goodness.
So I am happy and amazed, and somewhat baffled that, even without leg-burning rides I was still able to lose weight.
208.
I hope to be back on the bike this week. I was sick, then I was swamped with post-Portland work, but hopefully I can get a hundred miles or so in before the end of the month.
The descent to 180 has made me look back over the past year — my negative self thinks “How much COULD you have lost by now, had you not been so weak?”
Since we last checked in, I have accomplished a couple more random acts of kindness (still have 84 to go), I have met Fatty of Fatcyclist (#16 on the list), and I have eaten the $24 spaghetti at Scarpetta (#34), both of which exceeded expectations.
Before I leave Cycling Mecca this year, I plan on going after #27 on the list – compete in the Eddy Merckx category of a time trial. Note I said “compete” not “do well.” I’m no Little Joey Choo Choo after all.
It’s Tuesday and the sun is mostly out. If I finish my work soon enough, I will be out on The Goat today. And hopefully tomorrow, and the next day… it’s spring. WE SHOULD ALL BE RIDING.
Apologies to the late Biggie Smalls. And apologies for using th same post title I did back in January of 2011… but who doesn’t love that song?
As you’ve followed this soap opera, I ventured to Rose City for nearly a month. Riding only one time during that stretch, and getting little other exercise, I was quite nervous to weigh-in upon my return to Cycling Mecca. I had finally cracked the 210 barrier when we left Cycling Mecca and feared that hours upon hours of sitting around and eating meals at odd hours, along with virtually zero cycling would lead to a massive weight gain.
212? 215? Worse?
I am happy to report that when I stepped onto the official Unfat Project scale my weight came in at… drum roll please…
209.
YES! Exactly as when I left. I had spent 24+ days off the bike, and did NOT gain one pound. Disciplined eating and portion control can do wonders, people!
Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I did return from Portland with a nasty cold/flu which kept me down for two days in which I barely ate much at all. And as we all know, illness is the second best diet in the world – next to poverty.
So, yes, I am sure that contributed to my wondrous 209 weigh-in. But 209 it is. And I could not be happier.
The GOAT greeted me upon my arrival like a long lost friend. We are both itching to get back out on the roads and hills of Cycling Mecca and continue our descent – the descent we began back on January 14th.
The descent to 180lbs.
12.8 Stones for you lads across the pond.
I will continue to ride and post my weigh-ins weekly – being held accountable really does do great things.
In other news, Little Joey Choo Choo wasn’t satisfied with simply ripping apart my manhood by doing his fancy little Red Rides on the weekends. No. While I was wasting away in the rains of the Pacific Northwest, Little Joey Choo Choo decided to grab a salt shaker and empty it into the wound of my soul.
Little Joey Choo Choo decided to start racing. Like in an actual race with actual other racers. Licensed bike racers.
He has joined my cycling club’s race team, and in his very first outing managed a top 20 finish. I want to say there were only 20 riders in the race, but alas, I cannot. He is the real deal. He is Cadel Evans to my John Goodman. He also mocked me upon my return to Cycling Mecca by letting it slip that he rode up Rock Store in only THREE MINUTES faster than I ever have.
Greetings from the Pacific Northwest, where sunshine is as rare as a conservatively dressed individual.
So I have been up here in beautiful Portland (and it is beautiful) since the 22nd of March. I have not weighed myself since March 21st, when I clocked in at 209.
I have been working a lot, sitting a lot, walking a lot, sleeping little, and eating… not a lot, but at odd hours. I have worked very hard at keeping my appetite for destruction in check.
I have ridden once.
The weekends are the only time for me to ride, and one weekend I had my family here, another weekend I finished work at 3am Saturday morning, then it rained cold and hard Saturday and Sunday, but there was one Saturday that arrived with sun and temps in the high 50′s.
The Fuji Acr 2.0 — an aluminum machine painted sinister black, with Shimano 105 components and a compact ring. For $60, you get that plus a full tire repair kit and extra tube, and all the tools you need – for 24hrs. Good deal.
The Waterfront man pointed me toward a well-known paved bike trail that runs along the Willamette river, then meets up with other paved bike trails, and eventually forms a 40-mile loop, ending up right back downtown where it begins. Perfect.
I set out on my ride and quickly discovered that the toughest part of riding in Portland on a sunny day is navigating through the throngs of people all out trying to suck up as much dry brightness as possible before the next rain.
The first couple of miles were like riding through a cornfield of humans and dogs, as well as all the other cyclists out. One thing I noticed about Portlandia cyclists… they don’t do the fellow rider wave. Or nod. Or blink.
They get on with their business. I guess it’s because it is such a part of life here that doing the fellow rider acknowledgement would be like if motorists all waved to each other as we drove around town. Okay, I get that.
I did take note that the few riders who did acknowledge my waves and nods were other fully kitted roadies. Not all of them, but maybe 30%. And the massive amount of commuter cyclists I encountered? I’d say less than 10% returned my wave or nod.
The bike trail took me over the river and back the other way. I started out by all those buildings and greenish spirals in the photo below:
As I rode, the trail population dwindled and I would was able to get in short bursts of 15-18mph. This is a guess as I had no HAL 9000 of any kind on my rent-a-Fuji.
Then, all of a sudden, I had to stop and snap a photo just for Steve. I have no idea why this thing was sitting there in the water – there was no information, no historical marker, nothing – but I knew I had to grab a shot of:
Yep. Just your average, everyday submarine on a river. I looked but could not find Sean Connery nor Alec Baldwin.
As I traveled farther from downtown the trail lost a lot of its pedestrian population. I cranked the pedals and got into a nice rhythm, which I guessed was probably around 20mph.
That’s when I was passed by a big guy on a Cannondale carrying an extra wheel on his back. This guy blew by me and, of course, I could not let it go. I took my crop to the Fuji’s backside and gave chase… and chased… and chased…
And when I realized I was going to blow up before ever catching this guy’s wheel, er, wheels, I decided I must record the incident:
That’s as close as I ever got to him before we caught some dog-walker traffic. But once beyond the canines and their unaware owners, Wheelman was gone and never to be seen again.
I am guessing I rode between 24 and 28mph chasing this guy. I was in my second to last gear, in the big ring, and I was cranking. For probably a mile or more. Maybe even two. I really have no idea. But thank God for the dog-walkers. As I watched him disappear, I sucked down a Gu, drank, and decided to take it easy for a while and enjoy the scenery.
Soon, the river spun off one way and I turned another, and was riding along beautiful creeks and mini waterfalls, and through moss-covered forests of trees. And the city planners in this particular area (now about 15-20 miles from downtown Portland) did something really nice — all along this perfectly paved, 10-foot wide bike trail they created some really cool wooden walking trails to keep cyclists and pedestrians separated.
Yes, there were some walkers on the pavement, and I saw some cyclists on the wood, but mostly it kept things nice and safe for everyone.
I found no hills on this day and didn’t mind. I was just enjoying the experience of seeing new sights.
Eventually, I made it to the Columbia River, though it was far enough away from the trail that photos were pointless… or maybe by that time I was just too into the ride to pull the iPhone anymore.
At the end, my journey from Waterfront Bicycles and back took 2 hours and fifty-seven minutes. I did stop to take some photos, but other than that, I was pedaling. I don’t know how far I rode. If I had to guess, I’d say… average of maybe 14mph for 3 hours… so yeah, probably right around the 40-mile neighborhood.
I felt great after and was so thankful for the weather.
I have not weighed myself once since arriving here. I will not until I return to Cycling Mecca next week. Will I be back up over 210? Will I have dropped even more weight without cycling, but just managing my eating? All will be revealed in next week’s post. Until then…
Yes, we have cracked the 210 barrier. And I could not be happier because it happened during a week when I managed but one ride outside. I had three episodes on the trainer, but still, this week was nothing like the previous week from a riding standpoint.
But what I did do was — I mastered my eating. I did not have one bad day/night, and that makes me feel as good as completing a century ride. Okay, almost as good.
I can see 200 pounds, people! It’s way out there on the horizon, but I can see it.
The Bad
Tomorrow morning I have to leave Cycling Mecca due to work. And I’m going to be gone for no less than 23 days.
23 days without The Goat, or the Unfat Machine, or the Green Hornet.
23 days in a hotel with 24-hr room service, and no less than 31 restaurants within a 10-minute walk.
23 days of working 12 hours a day M-F, which will consist mostly of… sitting.
The Rainy
The place I will be spending the next 23 days is Portland, OR.
Wait, Portland you say? “Well, I hear that’s one of the single best cycling cities in all the United States!”
Yes, well, Portland is certainly cycling friendly. And I do plan on renting a bike. However, in addition to my 60 hours a week of sitting, Portland this time of year offers something I have rarely experienced on my rides.
Rain.
Lots.
Like London amounts. Or more.
It rains almost every single day in Portland this time of year. I have ridden in the rain exactly three times. And two of those times it was for less than 10 minutes.
But I am bringing my helmet and gloves and cold weather riding gear, and warm weather riding gear, and my pedals. I am committed to trying.
I do not want the great work I’ve managed over the past few weeks to be wasted. So I have to be more disciplined than I ever have in my eating. And I have to try and ride on the weekends.
So I will.
In the rain. On an unfamiliar and unfitted machine, over unfamiliar terrain. Just two days a week.
The Good. The Bad. and The Rainy. Bet you can’t wait for these ride reports!
Yes, this will be a negative post, but I hope to end it positively. But first… the weigh-in.
This week we tipped the scales at…
210.
ARRRGGHHH!!!
I so wanted to drop below that 10. After last week’s great weight descent, and the number of miles I rode this week – nearly 120 – I was hoping for a 209 or better.
210.
What happened? Well apparently, I discovered a MAJOR KEY in the weight-loss phenomena… ready?
Eating can influence your weight.
Seriously.
I have discovered that if you eat less and eat better, you lose more weight than if you eat more and eat worse.
I’m thinking of starting my own infomercial to make gobs of money off of this amazing discovery. But first, back to the matter at hand, namely this clydesdale on a carbon fiber goat.
So I rode a lot this week, and ate… not as good as I could have. I still have yet to have even one potato chip (crisp) this year, and I’ve had no more than 2 orders of french fries (another heroin-like weakness of mine) in 2012, and I have absolutely improved my worst habit – eating late at night.
But this week, I did have a couple of meals after 8pm… and one of them I totally threw portion control out the window. Just one night. And boom…
Only a half pound dropped in a 120-mile week.
I suck.
Which leads me to the title of this post… Things That Suck. Subtitle: Things That Suck in Cycling. Sub-subtitle: Things That Suck in MY Personal Cycling World.
In no particular order:
– When you’re riding an out-and-back route, or even a loop, and you suffer through a headwind on the way out, knowing how awesome it will be to ride that tailwind home… only to have the wind shift on you, and you get one of those “Headwind out and headwind back” rides.
– Cyclists who toss their empty gel packs and energy bar wrappers onto the road. YOU SUCK. Stick them in your jersey pocket, you lame, entitled, pompous asshats.
– When you’re climbing and you see the last section before the summit, so you crank the watts and hammer it up to the top… only to find that it’s a false summit and you have another 200 meters to go.
– Motorcyclists who like to play that game of “Let’s see how close we can ride to the bicycle rider.” YOU SUCK. These morons usually perform this idiotic and dangerous game when the bike rider is climbing. Nothing throws you out of your climbing rhythm more than a motorcycle screaming by within six inches of you.
– When you are descending at over 40mph, fully tucked, your face in a Jens Voigt grimace, your mouth just barely opened wide enough… for a bug to fly directly in and slam against the back of your throat. You want to know what it feels like to hold your heart in your hand? Try remaining calm and under control going down an 11% grade at over 40mph when a bug Kamikazes itself into your mouth.
– People who have ridden in group rides more than three times and yet STILL don’t understand the concepts of holding your line, passing on the left, pointing out debris, and using hand signals as well as your own freaking voice to call out pending stops, cars, etc. You suck.
– Being out on a ride where you’ve succeeded in pushing yourself harder and riding farther than you originally planned, only to discover you’ve run out of food and/or water and you’re still over 20 miles from home.
– Riders who blow their snot on other riders. More specifically, the tall dude on the white Specialized who snotted on me yesterday. Let me paint the picture for you, Dear Reader…
I was out enjoying my ride, about 28 miles in, when I hit a short but steep climb. As I spun my way up, I was dropped by a tall dude on a white Specialized Tarmac. Now, normally, I don’t complain about cyclists who don’t wave at other cyclists or any such rot. But generally, when you are passing and thus, dropping a rider on a climb, you at least acknowledge them. If not a “Good morning” or simple “On your left” then you give a smile or even a nod.
This dude did none of those. Which, as stated before, is generally okay with me. I wave or acknowledge every cyclist I see. Because I love our community. Sometimes I don’t get anything back, and it’s okay. There’s a myriad of reasons why someone may not wave at you or whatever. But I digress.
So tall dude passes me on the climb without so much as a glance in my direction. I get to the summit and begin the descent. And I fly down that hill, closing to within about 30 meters of him once we hit the base on the hill. I cruise along behind him, staying between 10 and 20 meters back. He slows and makes the same turn I’m going to make, and thus, I close a bit more on him.
Next we have a relatively straight and flat section of road that rolls along for about 3 miles or so. I ride behind the dude, making sure to never get within about 7 or 8 meters of him – because I don’t want him thinking I’m sucking his wheel, nor do I want to suck his wheel – I will never do that to a stranger out on the road. Just not proper etiquette, in my humble opinion.
Tall dude is rolling along about 20/21mph, so I have no desire/need to pass him. I assume he knows I’m there because I think he saw me when we made the turn, and at one point I had to coast to keep from closing on him, and The Goat has one of those clickety-clack rear hubs when you’re not pedaling, and I’m sure he heard me because I saw his head turn just slightly.
Anyway, about 2 miles into the 3-mile stretch, as I’m about 7 meters off his wheel, this tall dude on the white Specialized lays finger to nose, turns his head and blows a wad of snot that rides the wind straight back onto me.
I yell out some sort of expletive and he barely turns his head again, then rolls on away. Possibly the single most disgusting incident I’ve ever encountered on a bike, other than vomiting during the 100 Miles Of Nowhere.
To the tall dude on the white Specialized (and any other cyclist who participates in this activity): YOU SUCK.
Okay, enough negativity. I’m sure you could all add dozens of things that suck in the comments section, but let’s end on a positive note. Things that DON’T suck about cycling. Feel free to drop a comment about what you think does not suck about cycling.
I will start us off…
It does not suck when you roll out for a ride and discover comfortable temperatures and zero wind, and that’s what you get for your entire ride.
The awesome Steve’s recent post/link on Velominati’s cycling “rules” reminded me of something Hova told me when I first began the Unfat Project bak in 2010.
It never gets easier, you just go faster.
I set a goal to drop three pounds this week. I wanted 210. I did not make it.
210.5
I lost two and a half pounds. Didn’t make the goal, but setting the goal served its purpose. I ate well and rode The Goat, and dropped the most weight I’ve dropped in one week.
So I’m good. And I continually reminded myself It never gets easier, you just go faster.
This means, obviously, that cycling – training; riding; climbing; et al – doesn’t ever get easier, because as you get more fit and better on the bike, you go faster, thus, pushing yourself more. I said in an earlier post one of the things I love about cycling is that I am just like Levi Leipheimer and Andy Schleck and Jens Voigt… okay, NO ONE is like Jens Voigt.
But the point is – they suffer just like we suffer. Only they are going faster. When Levi won Leadville – arguably the single most difficult one day bike race in the country – he said, “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never suffered so much.”
Guess what? That’s the same thing the person who finished 884th said.
Though, I am back on the bike consistently, and eating much better, I am suffering more on my rides than ever before. I was thinking that this phenomenon might discourage others who are experiencing it. But I am here to tell you it is a sign that things are improving.
I can feel myself pushing harder on my rides. My average speed at the end does not necessarily indicate a huge difference, but when I am out there rolling along – I used to cruise at a pretty consistent 14-16mph. I am now almost always at 18mph or more.
I am still a slug on the hills, but that is because of my weight, and because I am trying to climb faster. Or at least steadier.
This weekend I put 75 miles on The Goat. I climbed nearly 7,000 feet. But the best part was that when I clipped in at the beginning of my rides, I had no idea where I was going, or how far I’d ride, or if I’d even climb at all.
I just started riding. And once out there, it just feels so good – seriously, is there anything better than being out on the bike? – to know that you’re getting healthier and stronger, and that your body craves to be pushed. So I sought out hills. On Saturday I climbed “Stunt Road” – a 4-mile climbed that averages about 7%, but unlike other climbs where there are certain recovery areas, Stunt is pretty consistent in its constant 7% grade. It has five switchbacks and a bunch of turns, and when you get to the top, you get this:
I had never ridden Stunt prior to this weekend. I had been too scared. But I felt so good after conquering it, I raced down it – the best part of climbing is descending! – and then on my way back home, decided to hit another hill, something we in Cycling Mecca call 7 Minute Hill. It got its name because the top level riders in the area try to climb it in seven minutes. I don’t know its length or average grade, but my best time is about 13 minutes.
Then on Sunday I set out again with no destination in mind. I ended up at Rock Store. I climbed it. It hurt. I can so feel the extra seven pounds I’m carrying compared to when I rode it in 20:50 last summer. But still, I did it. And at the top, you get this:
If you open the pic you can just see the Rock Store road snaking up from near the lake.
Then I descended Rock Store.
Have I mentioned how much I love descending?
Then, on my home, I took a detour – on a road I had not ridden before – and found the BIGGEST LOSER compound. That in itself was an inspiration. I rode more. Climbed more. And eventually made it back home. Exhausted, sore, and never feeling better.
Tomorrow I plan to ride again, but no climbing. Just long and flat, high cadence, lots of speed. Who knows where I’ll end up? Maybe at the base of a climb?
No matter what, though, I’ll be suffering. Because it never gets easier… you just go faster.
On one hand, I am really bugged. Annoyed. I am sick of being this size. I am sick of not pushing myself harder.
On the other hand, I am trying to stay positive. I have been dropping much more than not since I recommitted. And I will say that I have been much more focused on my eating habits – which is the cornerstone of this or any weight loss project. And I can pretty much guess now when I will be up or down on my weight.
This week I was buried with work. I did not get any riding in at all. I did managed two sessions of the trainer, and that’s where part of disappointment in myself lies – I should have gotten in four or five sessions.
And my eating was very solid but for one day when I probably consumed 3,000 calories or more in one sitting. I dined at the amazing SCARPETTA – the single best restaurant in Los Angeles. Freddy Vargas, the master chef at Scarpetta Beverly Hills, served me a custom-made 6-course meal.
How could I say no? And at least it was “good” food – meaning all fresh, perfectly cooked ingredients (tons of veggies) – as opposed to bags of chips (crisps) and french fries and ice cream.
So that coupled with the lack of saddle time, and I knew I was in for disappointment on the scale this weekend.
But again, no excuses. I COULD HAVE DROPPED WEIGHT THIS WEEK. I COULD HAVE WORKED HARDER, PUSHED MYSELF MORE.
But I did not.
And I’m paying the price.
I have to spend all of Sunday working, but the first thing I’m doing when I’m done is getting on the trainer. Time for a SUFFERFEST. I must be punished.
The good news is, the weather forecast for the coming week looks 80% sunny, and hopefully, I can find time to ride to make up for last week. If not… Sufferfest.
I’m tired of being in this 210-220 vacuum. I want to be under 210. I want it now.
I’m setting a mini goal this week, starting today… I want to drop three pounds by next weigh-in.
I want to weigh 210 when I hit the scale next weekend.
I began today with an egg white and fresh bell peppers concoction, and 20 minutes of core exercises. Now I go to work for several hours, eating healthy, and drinking tons of water throughout the day, and then tonight… Sufferfest.
Descending is painful. But the view from below is worth it.
This weekend, even without riding (I was in StL being domestic), I weighed in at 212.
Another full pound gone. I say gone as opposed to down because… down can come back up, but gone is gone. Never to return.
I’ve done well forcing myself onto the trainer when I haven’t been able to ride outside, but the single best thing I’m doing is eating better. No garbage throughout the day, and nothing at night. My dinners consist of fruits, veggies and perhaps a Lean Cuisine here or there. And where my standard go-to “treat” used to be potato chips (crisps for Gaz and Clive) at least once a night, I’ve now turned to homemade popcorn (with light olive oil) once or twice a week.
I’m back in the land of Cycling Mecca this week and hope to reach 275 miles for February. Stay tuned.
213 Friday morning! Yes, it’s only down a half pound from last week, but ANY week that you drop weight is a GREAT week.
I decided to celebrate my 213 with an epic ride with the CVC rouleurs – have I mentioned how much I love this bike club – on Saturday. The Orange group would be riding “Mulholland” – which means rolling out to the coast, cruising along the Pacific Ocean, then a climb up Mulholland – an 8.5 mile climb that averages between 6-8%. Total mileage for this ride is right around 50.
Perfect.
But then as life does occasionally, I was thrown a curveball (actually more of a nasty slider) about 1:30am Saturday morning. I received some very bad news – the type of news you get in the middle of the night, and that which makes it impossible to return to sleep. I finally managed to fall back asleep around 3:30 or so.
So much for meeting the club at 8:30am.
But I still wanted to have an epic ride. Coming off my Continental earlier in the week, and my new weight drop, I was feeling great cycling-wise, and… I knew I needed to ride long and hard to process the bad news I received.
So I awoke around 8:15. Ate, filled my bottles, pumped my tires (or tyres for Gaz), put on my Magic Cycling Kit (Rapha), and decided I would ride the Orange ride route, and maybe catch some stragglers on the last part of the climb. The last thing I added before rolling out was my iPod… I was going to need music on this day, and it was the best decision I could have made.
The first 18-20 miles of the ride was fairly flat, with a decent crosswind, and with my inspiring music and magical kit I managed to maintain an average speed over 18mph – great for me.
I hit the first climb of the day and then the first descent, and could not have felt better. I was alone on the ride, absorbed in the music and thoughts of faraway friends.
I turned for the coast, rolling through lettuce and strawberry fields, and then there it was… the ocean. I’m not sure there’s anything much better in cycling than riding along a coast. I could be wrong, but for me, it is nirvana.
I rolled along with a slight tailwind now, and kept my speed around the 23mph mark. I thought about my bad news, about the people I knew that were suffering in a way that made the very worst of cycling suffering nothing but an eye blink.
It was slightly overcast with the sun making little cameo appearances at just the right intervals. Something happened to me out there along the coast. I don’t know what it was, but I changed a bit as a person. For the good. It’s not something to get into here on a blog like this, other than to say, you can have life-altering experiences when riding on 1-inch of rubber.
I turned for Mulholland and began the climb. It was long, it was tough, and it was glorious. I pushed myself, I suffered, and at the summit I was rewarded with one of the more exciting, more technical descents in the area.
In the end I had spent three and a half hours in the saddle, I’d seen some beautiful scenery, and burned over 3500 calories (according to Hal 9000), and in some unexplainable way, gotten a little closer to God.
Normally, I end these posts with the whole “Eat better…” signature, but not today.
Life is precious. It’s a cliche, but only because it’s true. And you simply cannot understand how precious life is – or how quickly it can end – until it happens; to you or someone close to you. So appreciate each day. Give thanks. You don’t have to believe in God to do it. Even if you believe in nothing but a giant, empty void, you can still just give a silent thanks for each day you’re alive and able to enjoy things like friends, family, sport, the sun, the ocean, children, and the glorious endeavor that is cycling.
This weekend I had my own Rapha Continental. I had a great weigh-in… Oh! The weigh-in!
This week’s weigh-in…
213.5
Yes! Down two pounds from last week. We are descending again!
Okay, back to the Continental. So, I had a great weigh-in, then watched an outstanding cycling dvd (subject of my next post) given to me by Little Joey Choo Choo – so named because of his similarity to that little train in that little book about climbing hills.
The weather was decent if not for a little wind, and I needed to spend most of the day working, but I wanted to ride. So I donned my Rapha jersey and new Rapha bibs (thank you Santa), dropped 5 Gu’s into my pocket and headed out to get in a good 25-30 miles – a two hour ride.
Let me pause here to say… I always put too many Gu’s in my jersey. Always. It’s because Hova once warned me about getting stuck out on the road without any fuel and thus, bonking. I have never bonked since early 2010 and it’s because I always take enough Gu’s.
But it gets annoying when I return from rides and have two or three or four or more Gu’s left over. I’ve been doing this a while now, I know how much I eat on the bike – every 30-40 minutes. No matter what. So… going out for a two-hour ride like I was on this day, meant I needed no more than four Gu’s. But I took five to be safe, just not seven like I normally would.
Who can spot the foreshadowing?
So I rolled out for a nice two-hour ride with the images of this great dvd in my head, and the magic of the Rapha kit on my Philip Seymour Hoffman-like physique. I decided I would do what’s called here in Cycling Mecca “Hidden Valley out and back.”
A nice 26-mile cruise without much climbing, and a nice little headwind, which means the greatest gift in cycling – a tailwind on the way home.
But as I neared the fork in the road – don’t all of life’s greatest moments involve a fork in the road? As I neared the fork in the road which signifies the end of the “Out” part…
Let me pause here to explain… you get to the fork and turn around for the “out and back” ride, or else you continue on and immediately encounter a stinging half-mile climb, followed by a glorious 2 .2-mile descent where even a girlie descender like Little Joey Choo Choo can reach speeds well over 40mph. If you do that, the only way “back” is to either turn around and go up the 2.2 mile (10% avg) climb or else ride on, eventually doing one of several loops, making the ride anything from 35 miles to over 60.
At the fork, I was feeling so good that I kept going. I hadn’t really gotten my climbing legs back this season, but for some reason I wanted to test myself, push myself. So I did. I went up the stinger as fast and as hard as I could, then down the other side, reaching 45mph. Nothing gets the adrenaline going like hitting 45mph on 1-inch of rubber right after cooking yourself on a climb.
WooHoo!!!
Then something really cool happened that has only happened to me once or twice before. I hit what I call the Rapha Zone. Suddenly, I was just riding. I wasn’t paying any attention to speeds or heart rates or cadence or efforts or any of that. I wasn’t thinking about my route or my time or my miles.
I was just riding. Not cruising, but riding. Not taking it easy, but not redlining.
And before I knew it…
I was lost.
I had gone beyond the last turn which makes the 55-60 mile loop. I was in a place I’d never been. And I didn’t care. I was loving it. I took out my iPhone with its amazing map app, and found which roads I needed to hit to get back home. I knew I was low on Gu and water, but hey – I read my app and knew just a left turn here, a right turn there, and I’d be back in familiar land, and could refill bottles and get home on my last 2 Gu’s.
I read the app wrong.
Or rather, I didn’t pay close enough attention when I was reading it. I hit a road I’d seen on the app that ran along the freeway and led back to a familiar area. But guess what?
The road does not run along the freeway… the road was an ONRAMP TO the freeway. US 101 to be exact.
Oops.
I stopped, dismounted The Goat, and started the walk of shame back up the ramp, cars honking, desperately hoping I didn’t die in such a lame way.
Eventually, I found my way back to more familiar territory, managed to refill my water bottles, and as I was headed in the general direction of home, the wind shifted. Shifted as in – went from 2nd gear to 5th gear. Within minutes I was cranking into a headwind that had to have been 25-30mph. It sucked.
But it was also great. I was on a Continental. I was just riding. I loved every suffering minute.
And for the second time during that ride I forgot about my destination and got lost (this time thematically) in the ride.
I saw a newly paved road I had never been on and decided to take it. I had no idea what my mileage was at this point, and honestly had no memory I was down to one Gu. Home was due east. This road went Southeast.
Close enough.
As I rode and explored and rode and explored, Blind Faith’s CAN’T FIND MY WAY HOME filled my head. I was having the time of my life.
I was back.
My new road led to another and suddenly I was climbing again. I downed the last Gu, and cranked. And cranked. It was a climb I’d never done. And to be honest – in hindsight – if I had been aware of the climb before doing it on any other day, I would not have done it. I would have told myself “You don’t have your climbing legs back” or “You are too fat right now” or “Save it for April or May.”
But I didn’t…
I hit the summit, completely drained, and yet, feeling better than I had in weeks and weeks… and here’s what was waiting for me at the top…
Sometimes you must get lost to be found.
For you stat geeks, in the end I had ridden 52 miles, climbed 3000 feet and rolled up to my place with no Gu and not a drop of water left in my bottles.
I’d do it all again in a heartbeat… only with more Gu’s.
My eating was pretty good. On a scale of 1 to 10 — with 1 being I ate only fast food after 10pm at night, and 10 being I ate only fruits and veggies and lean turkey, and drank 8 bottles of water a day…
I was a 7.
But I was not in Cycling Mecca for most of the past 2 weeks, or when I was, I was buried with work, and thus – as you can see from the sidebar – I did not ride.
My mate, however, rode his Colombian arse off. Joe Hortua, heretofore known as Little Joey Choo-Choo, is a fellow TV scribe, who, after 20 years off the bike, was convinced by yours truly to get back on.
And get back on he did, buying a Specialized Tarmac this past summer, and conquering the hills of Philadelphia. Now in Cycling Mecca with me, he is a proud member of CVC – Conejo Valley Cyclists – my uber cool club, and has already surpassed me on the color scale of rides.
I rode with the Gold group last year for the most part. Gold is one level above purple – which is beginner. The rides are all color-coded based on distance and elevation gain. Anyway, by the end of my first season in Cycling Mecca, I was either riding at the front of the Gold Group, or at the back of the Orange group – one level above Gold.
Above Orange there is Red… the Red Riders are fast. They ride far and they climb high, and they do it fast. An example: a typical Orange ride might be 43 miles with 3500 feet of climbing. A Red ride that same day will be 55-60 miles with 4500 feet of climbing.
And the pace will be several mph higher than Orange.
Bringing Little Joey Choo-Choo out to CVC was a pleasure and I felt like quite the rider on our first outing together when I could sense that I needed to slow down so as not to drop my friend, being as how I am such a superior rider.
But… remember when I mentioned Little Joey Choo-Choo had been off the bike? Well, turns out that when he was on the bike – 20 years ago – he didn’t just ride. He raced.
Yeah.
And now, 20 years later, with only 6 months back in the saddle, he is racing again. Only he doesn’t know it.
See, he is racing me.
After our little outing where I was so generous to my friend so as not to embarrass him by dropping his hickory bronze Colombian arse, Little Joey Choo-Choo went out and rode with the club again… while I was out of town. Or working. Or both. I don’t remember. I’m still in a bit of a haze about it all.
See, Little Joey Choo-Choo went out – in only his third ride with the club – and rode with the Red riders.
And stayed with them. The whole way. Over 60 miles.
Stayed with the FRONT group. On a day that had 40mph winds.
Uh, huh.
So, I’m going to take my much-too-large Gold group riding arse and get it into shape even faster than before. Before Little Joey Choo-Choo made me question what little manhood I have left.
I now have a new resolve to add to my other 2012 resolves.
I resolve to catch Little Joey Choo-Choo before I leave Cycling Mecca again. Catch his svelte, red-riding, hickory bronze, Colombian arse…
and drop him.
I don’t care if it’s the rudest thing I ever do. I don’t care if it’s in the middle of a downpour and he’s lost his gps and has no idea how to get home to his wife and beautiful children.
He is getting dropped…
Like a cheerleader’s dress after a Homecoming victory.
Like a 2-foot putt.
Like 3rd period French.
I resolve to drop my friend.
Now, some of you more astute readers might have noticed that the week I put ON a pound is probably not the best week to make this resolve.
But timing has never been my strong suit.
I must get back to work now. Back to the trainer. The bike. The healthy food. I leave you with an open letter to Little Joey Choo-Choo…
Dear Lying, Cheating, Arrogant, Oh-I-Haven’t-Ridden-In-20-Years-So-I-Suck-And-So-Please-Be-Kind-To-Me-Cuz-I’m-So-Slow Little Joey Choo-Choo,
Somewhere, sometime, when you least expect it, you’ll be out on a ride – maybe one of your fancy schmancy Red rides – but you will be out on a ride, enjoying yourself, pedaling along, admiring your Sammy Sanchezesque technique via your perfect shadow, and you will hear something.
You’ll think it’s the wind at first, but then realize there is no wind. You’ll think perhaps there is an issue with your Specialized Tarmac, but then you’ll realize, no, it’s coming from…
Behind.
And the moment you turn and look back to identify the noise, it will be at that moment that you will see the source of the noise… it will be me and The Goat, flying by you like Contador by a dropped-chain Schleck.
And by the time you get your head back around, and more so – get your brain back around the Chriss Angel mindFREAK that just happened – you will have been officially dropped.
By a tubby guy who you didn’t know you were even racing.
One half pound down from last week. Not great, barely good, but going in the right direction. At this pace, I could lose 26 pounds this year.
I am just starting a descent. A massive descent. It will be long and technical and scary and at times slow, and sometimes lightning fast. But I have started the descent.
Author’s note: we all have different weight/health goals, and what is grossly overweight for one person may not be for another, but it’s all relative and we’re all rowing against the same current
215.
That’s the number.
I could lie to you and fudge the number a little, but we have all shared too much for that. Besides, that would only hurt me.
215.
That is what I weighed on the morning on January 4th, 2012. After dropping to a low of 198 back in November of 2010, I have put on nearly half the weight I lost that year. And the worst part? I did it all in just two months.
In October of 2011, just after completing the Livestrong Challenge Austin, I weighed 205 pounds. Not the 199 I managed the year before, but still thirty pounds lighter than when I started the 2Kin2K10 Unfat Project.
215.
I put on TEN POUNDS in TWO MONTHS. How? It was quite easy. I need do only two things.
1. Not ride my bike
2. Eat lots of crap.
It would be easy to sit back and make excuses – the holidays, work, needed family time, blah, blah, blah.
There are no excuses. I ate when and what I should not. And I did not ride when I should have ridden.
My body was complaining – I have now ridden enough in these last two years that my body wants to ride. Needs to ride. Just like it used to want to eat fried food, and needed to be fed to be comforted emotionally.
Bollocks. (That’s for Gaz and Clive)
My non-riding excuses were the ones we all use; too cold, too windy, not enough time for a worthwhile ride, I have to work, I want to be with my kids…
Bollocks.
Being with my kids is WHY I have ridden nearly 5,000 miles since I began this project. Is it truly worth it to “be with my kids” an extra hour here or there if it means I will die sooner? Wouldn’t my kids want me to NOT be with them several extra hours a week here or there if it means I will be around several extra years?
That’s 1st grade math in my opinion.
And in 2011, I failed 1st grade math. Well, in November and December.
Before I began this project I weighed between 235 and 245 pounds for several years. A lot of years. Yes, some of you weigh far more but see my author’s note at the top.
In 2010 I dropped to below 200 for the first time since… let me check… 1995.
And in one glorious year I erased 15 years of fat and unhealthy living.
Then in two months I began to piss it away.
But I stopped the free fall. I have caught myself. I have looked into the mirror and said, “No freaking way, Tubby. You Ain’t getting away with it.” Or words to that effect.
2012
“The Dozen” is what I have named 2012. So when you see the cool kids trending this on Twitter and hear it in movies about teen angst, you’ll know it was Fizz who started the pop culture craze.
The Dozen. The year I take back my life.
I have been so inspired by you all. Gaz, Clive, Steve, the list goes on and on. And I feel I’ve let you down as well as myself. I told Gaz I would challenge him to see who could come closest to losing 40 pounds in 2011.
Um… Gaz, you win.
But enough whining. Let’s get back to The Dozen.
I am back in Cycling Mecca. Last year I rode over 1500 miles in less than six months in Cycling Mecca. And 95% of that was riding only on weekends. I am back and ready to take full advantage of CM. I want over 2,000 miles before I leave this time.
I do not think I have ever been this focused or dedicated to healthy living/weight loss since midway through 2010. How focused?
Not only did I bring The Goat to Cycling Mecca, but I brought The Unfat Machine to have sitting on the trainer 24/7 so there will NEVER be an excuse not to do some sort of pedaling.
How focused am I?
Last night I loaded up at the grocery store. Bought everything I need for my little apartment. Last year I bought some pasta, a few fruits, almost no veggies, and many, many chips (crisps, Gaz), and other treats. After all, I knew I was riding hard and needed to be rewarded, right?
This year? Well, let’s take a look inside Fizz’s icebox; 8 apples, 4 oranges, asparagus, onions, tomatoes, carrots, boneless skinless chicken breasts, iced tea, avocado, eggs, and skim milk cheese. Gone is the nitrate-filled lunch meats, the two loaves of bread, the mounds of cheese, the bacon (God, I love bacon), the ice cream sandwiches, processed fried chicken nuggets, sausage, and other assorted yum-yums.
In the cabinets are whole-grain gluten-free pasta, brown rice, black beans, and gone are the potato chips, white rice, regular pasta, etc.
The only thing in this apartment that resembles even a hint of last year’s diet is a single box of Triscuits.
See, last year, while I was riding and climbing and riding and climbing, I was also eating crap. Not a lot of crap. Not a daily craptacular intake of enough fried food to fill an SUV, but still… crap.
This is why I did not drop another 5 or 10 or 40 pounds even though I was riding more than I did in 2010.
Eat better.
Here’s the other focused thing that is on like Donkey Kong in The Dozen: eating out.
Eating out less and not eating crap when eating out.
See, I love restaurants. I mean, I freaking love the event of dining. Check my twitter from last night and you will see how much I freaking love eating out. @Fizzhogg
But in 2011 I would say 90% of my dining out consisted of some level of crap in each meal. Not just a side of bread, but fries and cheese and fries and did I mention fries?
I wrote here about Ladyface Ale House last year. I love Ladyface. Great food, great people, and a futbol match on at all times. Their menu has some wonderful, healthy items – which I ate last year. And their menu has the single best moules-frites (mussels and fries) I have ever had in this country.
And I ate a lot of Ladyface moules-frites last year.
Now, I’m not saying I’m turning into a food nazi. I know I cannot deny myself any moules-frites. But what I can do is be focused enough on the big picture (my gut) to only order them maybe every third or fourth time I go to Ladyface, and more importantly, go to Ladyface Ale House less.
Eat at home more. Cook my own meals more. It saves money and is much, much healthier.
Last night I went to Scarpetta – the single greatest restaurant in all of Los Angeles. I had a 7-course meal that was the single greatest meal I have ever had in my life. Nothing was fried, but master chef Freddy Vargas certainly used some oils and butter and whatnot to achieve those flavors.
That meal was a farewell to my body. The one I currently occupy. I could have found the best burger and fries in Los Angeles and said goodbye with that. But I wanted something good. I wanted something epic. All the ingredients were farm fresh and while there were many, many calories consumed, it was so much better for me than a box of chicken nuggets and two large order of fries.
It was an indulgence. Something I did way too much of in 2011. And something I will do much, much, much less this year.
2012. The Dozen. The year I take my life back.
I could set goals here – 5,000 miles, losing 30 pounds, blah, blah, blah. But goals can be tough and they leave room for excuses – “At least I tried.“
No goals this year. Only resolutions.
“New Year’s Resolutions” has become such a cliche in this world that people forget what it means.
Resolve. Having resolve.
Starting today…
I resolve to eat much, much, much healthier.
I resolve to hold myself accountable publicly – I will post my weight on this blog once a week.
I resolve to NEVER have a bag of potato chips (or tortilla chips) in my apartment at any time. Ever.
I resolve to NEVER eat after 7pm at night, unless it’s a fruit or veggie.
I resolve to manage my portion control.
I resolve to ride my bike whenever I can.
I resolve not to be lazy.
If I follow all of the above the weight will come off. It will fall off me faster than a dress off a cheerleader on homecoming night.
I want to thank you all for riding on the handlebars with me the past two years. It has been fun. It can still be fun, but it’s time to get very serious as well. I believe part of why I didn’t do so well in 2011 and really tanked in the final two months is because I wasn’t talking with you all.
Holding myself accountable. To you. I resolve to blog more in 2012. We can laugh, we can have fun, and we can get healthy. What this blog will not be used for is excuses. What is the point of having a blog like this if ever third or fourth post is “So, I ate crap yesterday, but starting tomorrow I will do better!”
Bollocks.
Gaz… Gaz is our poster boy. Our leader. Our knight battling the dragon. When any of us (especially me) thinks we can’t do it, it’s too hard, it’s too cold, too windy, I’m too tired, I want to be with my family, I deserve a treat — when any of us think any of that, we need to immediately hit the web and go to Gaz’s before & after page.
We need to remember the words of Ken Chlouber that I have hammered into you all ad nauseam:
YOU ARE BETTER THAN YOU THINK YOU ARE
YOU CAN DO MORE THAN YOU THINK YOU CAN
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you 2012… The Dozen. The year WE ALL take back our lives.
2011 was the second year of the 2Kin2K10 UNFAT PROJECT, and whereas 2010 was akin to a long steady climb with a beautiful view at the summit, 2011 was like one of those brutal roads of rolling hills that after a while can really demoralize you.
Ups and downs I think non-cyclists call this.
There were some amazing highs in 2011: Discovering Cycling Mecca; Joining the Conejo Valley Cyclists club; climbing Rock Store; taking ownership of Unfat II The Goat; making new cycling friends; raising money for Livestrong; my son meeting the Garmin-Cervelo team; riding in the Livestrong Challenge Austin and finishing it despite battling food poisoning; completing several things on my OHTTDI2KD list; and the highest of highs – riding the Tour de Donut and El Tour de Tucson with my son.
But there were also some very low lows: losing my mother-in-law to cancer; being away from my family for so long; my father-in-law’s current war with cancer; and on the cycling front – finishing the year with so few miles in November/December after such a strong start; falling back into horrible eating habits; ending the year weighing MORE than I started.
That’s right. I put ON weight this year. And I did it all in the last 6 weeks of 2011. I feel like it was akin to… giving up.
I quit.
I went against everything I preach here. I stopped trying.
I got off the bike.
My next post will cover in greater detail my weight issues and 2012 plans. And believe me, I do have plans. But for now, I want to be positive and drink in what it is about this sport/hobby/past time/obsession that we all love and share.
WHY I LOVE CYCLING
These are not in any order other than the way they’ve popped into my head as I thought about it… and I would love to hear from you – why you love cycling, or hate it, or whatever.
I love being outside. I love the too hot and too cold days as much as the perfect weather days. Okay, not as much. But I still love them. Feeling the sun on warm days, feeling your lungs sucking in that crisp, cool air on cold days. I love it all. There are many wondrous things we can do indoors (let’s not get naughty here), but being outside is simply better.
I love that cycling is just like writing. What? Yes, it’s true. Cycling is this solitary endeavor; just you out there on the bike alone (this is not a tandem blog), with nobody to help you, to stop you, to encourage or discourage you. But it is also the greatest communal activity I have ever experienced. There is NOTHING better on certain days than riding with a group. Being with fellow cyclists is so much fun. Being around anyone – stranger or friend – who shares a passion with you? You can’t beat that.
Riding together, swapping stories, talking about why Shimano is so much better than SRAM, talking about work, family, Lance, the pro tour, the continental tour, local bike shops, climbs, food, drink, cars, motorists, cops, robbers, women, men, or the very best part – being there to push each other.
To pull someone up a hill, or have them pull you when your tank is empty. To encourage you that you can push harder, you can go farther, or to try and discourage you! To challenge you, to talk trash, to try and drop you and vice-versa, I simply love riding with others just as much as I love riding alone. Neither is better. They are both amazing.
But wait, how is all that like writing? Well, because writing is also a completely solitary endeavor. Just you and the keyboard or legal pad. No one to push you but yourself. No one to help you create worlds or characters or stories. No one to tell you what you can and cannot write… except network executives, but that’s for another blog.
But writing can also be this great communal activity. In television writing there is nothing better than sitting around with the other writers coming up with stories, or walking down to someone else’s office when you’re stuck in the middle of a third act that doesn’t work and borrowing a cup of writing.
Talking writing is one of my great loves. And being with other writers is just like riding in a peloton. People doing what you are doing, sharing that same passion, there’s nothing better.
Writing and cycling – total solitary endeavors that are some of the best group activities, too.
I love the challenge. I love pushing myself beyond my own expectations. I love pushing myself beyond what I’ve ever done before. I have talked here ad nauseam about Ken Chlouber of Leadville and his quote that I now try to live my life by:
You are better than you think you are. You can do more than you think you can.
It is true. If you haven’t experienced this yet, it is because you have NOT pushed yourself hard enough. Because it is gospel. It is more true than taxes or death. And it has changed me not only as a cyclist, but as a person. I have taken that quote and used it in other aspects of my life and guess what?
It works there just as well as it does on the bike, when you’re suffering up that last climb of the day and your body is screaming that it has nothing left, and yet you crank a little bit harder and find a little bit extra and you do something you did not believe you could do… on or off the bike.
I love that I am just like Mark Cavendish and Levi Leipheimer. Um… huh? Yes. Here’s is another truly amazing thing about cycling. We are all the same. Let’s take the Leadville Trail 100 as an example.
Leadville is arguably the toughest single day bike race in the country. And people like you and me attempt it each year, just like Levi and Lance and other pros do. And despite the fact that Levi might finish five or six hours ahead of us, we both suffered the same.
What? Yes. The riders finishing six hours behind Levi suffered just as much as Levi and the other leaders did. Here’s why — in order for Levi to his very best out there he had to give 100%. He had to push himself to his absolute limit and beyond. Don’t think so? A quick Google search will show you Levi’s post-race press conference where he says exactly that.
And regardless of who you are or what shape you’re in, when you push yourself to that point… it all feels the same. Levi was hurting just as badly after six hours of riding as was the rider who finished in 13 hours. The only difference is Levi’s recovery is probably a bit quicker. Same with Cavendish. Listen to him after winning the Worlds or after finishing a grueling mountain stage in the TDF. It’s the same with any rider – pro or amateur – who pushes him/herself to that point.
We all suffer the same. We can sit down after a long ride and talk with a rider who finished hours ahead of us and share things in common.
We all suffer, and we all fall in love with the suffering.
2011 was a disappointment for me on several levels. But I am going to be positive and learn from my mistakes. I am going to use the negativity to fuel my going forward.
I wish you all a very happy and healthy 2012 and beyond.
Well, another El Tour de Tucson is history, and 2011 went much better than 2010. Maybe because I rode the 42-mile event (which turned out to be 43.2 miles) as opposed to the 109-mile like last year. But mostly it was because I rode with BUCKY – my 8-year-old son who was introduced to the cycling world on Fat Cyclist’s blog this summer.
Prior to this weekend, my son’s longest ride was the Tour de Donut in July – where he rode 31 miles, consumed two Krispy Kreme donuts and had an awesome time. If you have 5 minutes to spare, here is a video of that event:
As morning broke on November 19th, I heard Bucky say (at least eight or nine times), “Dad, I’m really nervous” or “Dad, I’m scared.” The amazing thing about this boy is that unlike a lot of other kids his age, he does not run from fear. No matter how nervous or afraid he is of something he still pushes forward and does his best. Nothing makes a Pop prouder.
I kept telling him it was okay to be nervous. I reminded him that his hero or heroes Leo Messi says that he still gets nervous before each match. And then, the grand boys of Garmin-Cervelo once again showed their class and awesomeness.
When I showed him those messages he smiled and said, “Okay, now I’m ready.”
As in the Tour de Donut my son wanted to start at the very back of the pack, wanted to be the last rider crossing the start line. His bike is still a bit too big for him and so starting and stopping are his achilles heels right now. Plus, he likes to see how many riders he can pass. Competitive to the end.
There were just over 1200 riders for the 43-miler and the only folks starting behind us would be the Mavic Support vehicle.
His uncle – Hova – a professional cycling coach was going to ride with us and would meet us somewhere around the starting line. Once the race started it was thirteen minutes before we crossed the starting line. But Hova was there, along with the PT – Bucky’s aunt. The plan was we would all ride for him. We were his domestiques; we were Jens to his Andy; Hincapie to his Lance.
Bucky was feeling “nervous but okay” as we rolled under the Starting Line banner. We were trailing the entire field which was good because his biggest fear is riding in packs. He is not yet comfortable riding around a lot of other riders. So we rolled up the 1/4 mile straight start and then made the big left turn…
And encountered some of the 6000 other cyclists riding in the 111-mile, 85-mile and 60-mile events.
Even behind his sunglasses I saw my son’s eyes widen as we went from having no one around us to having – literally – hundreds of riders around us. I saw him take a deep breath. Once again he was going to conquer his fear or go out trying.
Hova was masterful as he led Bucky through the maze of riders. I was trailing, videoing it with my helmet-mounted Contour. And I must admit I was really nervous. I thought Hova was pushing Bucky beyond his abilities – not only having him weave in and out of riders, but riding at much too high a pace.
When Bucky and I did the Tour de Donut, his average speed on the flats was usually around 11 or 12mph. Hova was having him crank at around 15-16mph while going through dozens of riders!
I turned to the PT at one point and said, “He’s going to blow up. This pace is too high.”
Obviously I was projecting some of my own neurosis from last year’s El Tour. She assured me Hova knew what he was doing.
We pedaled our way through many, many riders of all shapes, sizes and ages. One particular rider Bucky was on the lookout for was a kid about two years older than him whom he saw at the starting line. The kid was on a slightly larger bike than Bucky’s and looked very intimidating except for the silly plastic propeller on the top of his cycling helmet.
My son is a kid and loves life, and loves fun kid stuff. But there are two things that are sacred – soccer and cycling. Just as one would never wear hiking boots onto a soccer pitch, one would never wear a propeller atop one’s cycling helmet.
Bucky took one look at that kid and said, “There is no way I am letting that guy beat me.”
So as we rode, I could see Bucky eyeing every younger rider we came upon, searching for his target. About six miles in we rolled up on “Propeller Boy” and as we passed I saw Bucky turn and give him a stare that was every bit as intense as Lance’s look to Jan Ulrich.
At our first aid station stop we drank and ate GU’s, and Bucky’s family showered him with praise and took numerous photos. He pulled me aside and said, “Dad, I really like doing all these cool things, but the part I hate about it is everybody always wants to take my picture.”
We pushed on, weaving our way through hundreds of riders. Bucky stayed right with his domestique, getting in some drafting at one point, and even going full aero on a long descent.
At mile 30 we hit Rattlesnake Pass. It’s considered the “climb” of the ride, and though it’s not much of a hill as far as gradient, it is over horrible chip seal roads and it hits you when you’re really starting to feel the ride. Especially if you’re 8.
Bucky was excited though because he likes to climb more than anything. He finally got a chance to get out of the saddle and attacked a climb with all his might. He passed adults walking their bikes and passed some riding their bikes. He crested the summit and was happy, but tired.
This was the first time we began to see a crack in Bucky’s armor. Mile after mile he started to get a little more quiet, a little more frowny. For the first time he asked, “How much farther?” But in all this suffering he never dropped his cadence, never slowed down.
At mile 36 we stopped to drink and eat. He did not look good. Was not happy. Not enjoying it anymore. But he did not want to stop. He turned down our offer to rest a while, downed a GU, nodded, and was ready to finish it out.
As rolled off for the last 9 miles I informed him that we had ridden 37+ miles in the same amount of time he rode the 31 miles of the Tour de Donut. That information coupled with the power of the GU – let me pause here to say that GU PRODUCTS ARE AMAZING - Bucky cranked that final 9 miles dead into the wind. As he’d done the entire ride, he rarely drafted on Hova, choosing instead to ride it “himself.”
We made the last turn and headed for the Finish Line. Hova told Bucky to get on his wheel and I witnessed what it must be like to be riding in the peloton when Dean leads out Farrar, or dare I say… no, I can’t… but yes, I will…
Renshaw leading out Cavendish.
As the speed increased… 16mph… 18mph… 20mph… Bucky continued to crank.
42.5 miles into the ride, the last 10 dead into a headwind, this little boy was in his biggest gear cranking with everything he had, staying within 6 inches of the back wheel of a professional cycling coach. Not only did the crowd start going crazy for him, but the riders he was passing all began cheering.
Just before the Finish Line, Hova launched him. “GO JACK GO!” he yelled, and he went.
I will let you all witness the spectacle for yourself (forgive the screaming father riding behind him:
I’m not sure if Bucky was anywhere near as proud of his accomplishment as I was. Not just for finishing, but doing it the way he did. Digging so deep at the end. Suffering on the bike and pushing through it.
1,278 riders started the 43-mile ride. Bucky started at the very back of those 1278 riders. When he and his timing chip crossed the starting line, it was nearly 13 minutes after his timing chip had been activated.
Bucky finished 620th overall. The Junior Division was 12-years-old and under. There were 53 junior riders (NOTE: I am not counting tandems in all this).
All but one of the top 9 finishing juniors were either 11 or 12 years old.
Eight-year-old Bucky finished 10th.
And 5 of the 9 juniors finishing before him were less than 13 minutes ahead of him.
Propeller boy finished 17 minutes behind Bucky.
Congrats to Bucky, and special thanks to Hova and the PT for being the best domestiques any rider could have. Bucky sends a special thank you out to the boys of GARMIN-CERVELO and JV for inspiration.
What does it feel like to dig deep and do more than you think you can? It feels like this:
I have four new short stories available for the Kindle and Nook. Three are packaged together in THREE STORIES DOWN, and one is by itself (WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD) for only 99 cents. Note: the stories do contain adult themes including violence, sex, murder and some really dumb characters making really dumb decisions. But there’s also humor in them, too!
If you don’t have either, you can download a Kindle Reader App for your Mac or iPad for FREE right HERE
And CLICK HERE for other choices of FREE reading apps.
These make awesome holiday gifts. And all the stories are a great cautionary tale about what happens to the type of people who don’t ride bikes!
I will be back soon with more cycling specific posts. In the meantime, read the stories and drop me a line here to let me know what you thought. I want to hear it all – the good and the bad.
Greetings all. Yes, I have been away for a while. For a couple of weeks I was guest-blogging over at FAT CYCLIST.
The two most popular posts (generating thousands of hits) were about my son’s cycling adventures. You can read those HERE and HERE.
Other than that I’ve had work stuff, kids soccer, and weather get in the way of this project.
Austin is only two weeks away, and I need to log some miles. So on a cool morning recently, I was excited to get back in the saddle.
I put on a new jersey and new bibs, and set out with no destination in mind. Just miles. Just an experience. I got all that I asked for.
But before we go into the ride, I want to discuss…
Musical viruses.
“Musical Virus” is a game that my friends and I have enjoyed playing on many occasion. For those that don’t know, a musical virus is when you put the tune of a song into the brain of another person (like a virus) and they are helpless against it. And you get bonus points for bad songs.
Example: You could put Born To Run into the brain of your opponent and score accordingly, and give your opponent a nice song to have bumbling around his/her brain. Or… you could put Tainted Love into the brain of your opponent and score Triple Bonus points, and cause your opponent to want to stick a fork in their eye.
Basically, you hum, whistle or sing a tune within earshot of your friend and then wait… for them to start humming, whistling or singing the song themselves. Against their will. Without any control whatsoever. Hence the virus part of it.
I have always been very good at this game. I can even do it via the Internet. Watch…
Remember the band Cheap Trick? And their 1978 smash hit Surrender? Sure, you do. It went like this. Rick Nielsen’s powerful guitar intro followed by:
Mother told me, yes she told me, I’d meet girls like you…
And then there was the great chorus that we all remember:
Mommy’s all right, daddy’s all right, they just seem a little weeeeiiirrrdddd, surrender, surrender, but don’t give yourself awaaaaay. Aaaayyyyyy. Aaaaayyyyyy.
Yeah, you remember. Read that last part again.
And thus, a musical virus is born.
What you say? “What are you talking about, Fizz?”
Well, see, what is going to happen now is that – later on, when you least expect it, maybe while you’re still reading this, or maybe a couple of hours from now, you will have that song IN YOUR HEAD.
A musical virus.
And the only way to get rid of it is to let it simply run its course and leave your brain on its own… or else replace it with another tune.
Why am I talking about musical viruses? Because someone – and I can only think it must be The Goat – is playing the game with me… but on a totally subversive, subconscious level.
Lately, when I am out riding BY MYSELF – just me and The Goat – without our trusty iPod, a musical virus will pop into my head. And whomever is behind it, is going for MAX bonus points.
Because on my last two rides, the song that has popped into my head and will not go away is…
Sail On by the Commodores.
I am not such a horrible human to risk a musical virus on you by writing any of the lyrics here. Suffice it to say, it is an atrocious song, completely inappropriate for pushing one’s self on a bike.
And it kept popping into my head. Once I swore I even heard The Goat laughing.
But on my most recent ride, I was fortunate enough to not have the Song-Whose-Name-Shall-Never-Be-Mentioned-Here-Again in my brain. Probably because I had my iPod with me. I headed out as I always do, but then turned left where I usually turn right, and found a completely new place to ride.
What I also found was chilly weather, a healthy wind, and more traffic than I prefer. But something odd was happening. None of this was bothering me.
Th crisp weather and blowing headwind had no effect on me. The traffic was just noise. Why was I feeling so good? Why was I not whining about riding into a headwind? Why was I not silently complaining about my cold fingertips? Why was I simply enjoying the experience of the ride? What was different?
My jersey.
I’ve spoken before about the inspiring films Rapha makes. They sell high-priced cycling clothing and prior to last week I had never owned anything by them. But their films moved me in such a way that I broke down and spent more on a single jersey than I ever have on an entire kit.
Honestly, I have no idea why I bought this thing, other than the Rapha films so inspired me.
The jersey is… well, magic. I call it my Thermos jersey. Then immediately apologize to the jersey for giving it such a lame name. But the thing is, it keeps you cool when you need to be cool, and it keeps you warm when you need to be warm. How does one jersey do both?
Magic.
And not only is it the single most comfortable jersey I own (I own 11 jerseys from 6 different manufacturers), it is also the duffle bag of jerseys. The rear pockets are large enough to stow a mtn bike, and there’s this cool little zippered pocket that holds keys, money or an iPod perfectly, and speaking of iPods, the jersey also comes with a little hole for your headphones wire. All of this and it still feels like a skin suit against your body. A comfy, cozy skin suit.
In short, I LOVE THIS JERSEY.
I was so impressed with the Rapha brand that I went back to their site and ordered arm warmers and a really nifty water bottle. I hope to buy more jerseys, bibs and jackets down the road, but I will first need to take a second mortgage out on my house. That said…
I believe the Rapha jerseys are worth every single penny they cost.
Where was I? Oh, yeah – the ride. So there I was, riding along, enjoying sights and sounds and roads I’d never seen. Before long the traffic vanished and I found myself in a whole ‘nuther part of town. And I saw things I’ve never seen before. Like this:
A giant snake eating a mailbox. Why not?
I kept riding and came to another little town I had never ridden in. And found one of these:
That’s right. A Bass Pro Shops right there in the middle of… wherever I was. I figure I was about 25 or so miles from my regular route. And that’s another thing that is so awesome about a “Rapha Ride.” By the way, I have now named these types of rides “Rapha Rides” – the rides where you aren’t worried about speed or distance or time or heart rate or watts or anything else. You’re just riding.
The other thing that is so awesome about a Rapha Ride is that I barely looked at Hal 9000. I love my Garmin Edge 500, but on this ride I didn’t care how far I’d gone or how fast or how many feet I climbed. I was just riding.
And when you just go and ride you find the most amazing things. Like mailbox eating snakes, and little league fields with cemeteries in the outfield.
Wait, what?
You will probably have to click on the photo to enlarge it enough to see – but yes, any home run hit here will land on a dead guy.
I rode and rode and rode. New roads, new towns. I was feeling so good and feeling so Rapha that on my way home I decided to do something I would have never done before this magical jersey…
The Katy Trail is a rail trail that runs along the Missouri river for over 200 miles. Yes, you read that right. A bike/walking/running trail that runs uninterrupted for over 200 miles. The majority of the trail is crushed limestone according to the trail site. But there are definitely parts of it that are simply dirt. Or gravel. But mostly, it’s crushed limestone that winds along the river and through beautiful trees and foliage.
I have never ridden it because I had heard horror stories about road bikes on the Katy Trail. “It will destroy your rims.” “It will tear up any 23 or 25 road tires.” “There’s too much debris to get around.”
Obviously why would I ever want to take my road bike on something like that, right?
Then I saw the Rapha films. I saw the Rapha riders riding gravel and dirt and doing it on road bikes. Because of the experience.
So when I saw the sign for the Katy Trail, I turned The Goat and we hit the trail. I rode the Katy Trail for seven miles, and guess what? No flat. No puncture, nothing. I think as long as your tires are in good shape and you keep them fully inflated, chances of flats are slim.
It was amazing. Sure, there was the occasional branch or rock I had to avoid, but that made it interesting and kept my focus. I rode along looking at beautiful Momma Nature and the roiling Missouri River.
And again, I almost never looked at my Garmin Edge. When the ride was over, I had logged 57 miles with 2,700 feet of climbing. But it could have been 10 miles or 100 miles; could have been 200 feet of elevation gain or 12,000. I didn’t care. Because it was about the experience.
I can’t promise that all of you will have the same magical experience I had with my Rapha jersey, but I bet you would. I can’t wait for my next Rapha Ride. And can’t wait for my next Rapha jersey.
Eat better.
Ride your bike.
Surrender, surrender, but don’t give yourself awaaaaay.
