Posted by: fizzhogg | October 8, 2010

With Apologies to Ace Frehley and The Boys


Okay, I’m nowhere near New York, and I have no idea what exactly a New York groove is, as opposed to any other type of groove, but ignore all that and just focus on the I’M BACK part!

That’s right, Hub Rubbers, I am back on the 2Kin2K10 train! After nearly three weeks of wimpy, weenie rides, with a myriad of excuses ranging from cold to wind to traffic to potholes to blah, blah, blah, I got my hefty tuckus out on a ride this morning and smashed some Personal Best Records. Why did I capitalize those words? Maybe that’s what a New York Groove is?

But I digress.

The weather was great this morning and to avoid any more traffic excuses, I drove over to my old lake route (the one by the soccer fields) and started to ride.

Let me pause right here to say… Newbie cycling secret Numero Uno (that’s #1) — You are capable of way more than you think you are.

I have talked here before about this cycling stuff being so much mental/psychological/in-the-noodle. Well, I was wrong. It is ALL mental. Okay, being 5’7″ and 130lbs with thighs like tree trucks wouldn’t hurt, but seriously, it is all mental.

Let me explain… those regular readers of this plethora of two-wheel tales know that, lately — right after I loudly proclaimed “Training Starts Today” — I have been less than vigorous on the Unfat Machine. I logged over 250 miles between September 1st and 18th. Since then… 30. And I did a lot of whining.

So today I started riding with the plan (i.e. hope) of doing at least 35 miles. I knew I’d screwed up my training plan of three days of regular riding, then one day of at least three and a half hours in the saddle. I was basically starting over, so my goal was 35 miles. About 2.5 hours.

Ten minutes into the ride I wanted to stop. I wasn’t comfortable, I wasn’t feeling it. It was as if I’d only logged 50 miles this year, not nearly 1700. I look down at my stupid Bontrager computer and saw 10:14 for elapsed time. Crap.

But here’s where Newbie cycling secret #1 comes into play. I kept riding.

And about forty minutes into the ride, after I thought at least twice about quitting, I was back. I was Ace Frehley. Except, you know, without the face paint and boots. But, for the first time in weeks, I felt like the guy I was last month. I was loving being on the UM again. I was comfortable, I was cranking, I was rolling, I was climbing, I was rocking it.

Two hours into the ride, after scaling Hog Hollow and River Valley (a shorter, but much steeper climb), I knew today would be record breaking. Today was going to be my first fourth day — the day where I don’t care about miles, and think only of time in the saddle. My goal was set — three and a half hours.

2 hours and forty minutes in, I felt the first pangs (pangs???) of fatigue. My legs were feeling fatigued.

I kept riding.

And guess what? The feeling of fatigue went away after about five minutes.

Around the 3 hour mark, my tuckus began to complain. It wasn’t pain so much as it suddenly wanted very much to get off this saddle and onto a nice couch or bed.

I kept riding.

The pain in the ass lasted about ten or twelve minutes. Throughout I just kept shifting around as best I could, and… kept riding.

At 3 hours and 17 minutes, the butt hurt was replaced by severe leg burn. My quads (that’s fancy cycling talk for thighs) were burning. It wasn’t pain or numbness or fatigue – it felt like they were on fire. I coasted a lot during this time, but still managed to crank now and then, enough to keep up a minimum of 14mph with short bursts up to 18 and 20mph.

The quad campfire kept up.  3:22.  3:25.  3:28.  At 3:28 my tuckus was now also aflame.

Burning thighs and bum. I felt like a kalua pig at a Luau.

I kept riding.

I got back to my truck just as my stupid Bontrager passed the 3:32 mark. I dismounted and checked the mileage and saw:


The farthest I’ve ever gone.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.

So, I’m back. In the New York Groove. Or… whatever.

Never forget Newbie cycling secret #1.  Ever.


Eat better.

Ride your bike.

Lose the gut.

Fair winds and following seas, Willy


  1. Damn. I bet I don’t DRIVE 53 miles in the average week.

    Keep it up, you fat bastard!

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