Last Friday I talked about the obvious physical changes ten years of biking has made in me. Most of the changes I talked about — and most of the comments that came after — were about scars and other injuries.

Which brings up the question: So why do we bike?

Well, I bike because what’s happened in my head more than offsets anything that’s happened to my body.

 

I’ve Learned I’m an Athlete

In high school, I actually did “letter” — in debate and humor interpretation (yes, reading funny stories to audiences is actually a competitive event in the US, and I took it very seriously). But not in sports. Oh no, not in sports. In fact, I took some kind of cockeyed pride in not being a “jock.”

This is a tragedy, because I went to high school in Fruita, CO, which any mountain biker worth his salt knows is one of the best mountain biking destinations in the world.

As I got older, I rollerbladed (I can admit it without shame) to keep in shape, and played quite a bit of racquetball.

But I was never an athlete until I tried endurance mountain biking at age 30. The discovery that I have a gift for staying on my bike and turning the cranks long after most people would fall over exhausted was incredibly gratifying. It made me wonder: what else have I not discovered about myself?

And who wouldn’t want to find out, three decades into their life, that you’re an athlete — you just needed to find out what kind.

 

I’ve Learned I Can Suffer Well

I have ridden through the night, I have ridden in the cold, I have ridden when I am completely bonked out of my mind. I have ridden uphill for twenty miles with a jagged seatpost where my seat used to be. I have finished a race with a separated shoulder. I have ridden six hours after falling six feet right onto my chest, forearms, and face. And while part of me despairs (or even screams), I have never quit a race. Even while I am suffering, there’s a part of me that’s grimly amused at what a fool I am. That sarcastic guy has goaded me through a lot, and I now know that I can make it through circumstances that would shut a lot of people down. That’s a pretty cool thing to know about yourself.

 

I’ve Learned How to Be Smart

Kevin Millecam, a manager of mine back in the old days at Novell, used to give me challenging assignments — he’d tell me he wanted a database that could act as a back end to a shopping cart he wanted created using Java. And he would ask for those things knowing full well I was still just learning Java, and didn’t have database programming experience.

Then he would send me off on a mountain bike ride, during work hours, telling me to come back in three hours or so.

I’d take off, totally freaked out, knowing I was doomed. Within a half hour on the bike, though, I’d have forgotten all about what Kevin had asked for. And then, within an hour, little things would start popping into my head. By the time I got back, I’d have a working plan for how to get started.

Any time I’ve talked with a cyclist — road or mountain — I’ve heard similar stories. You get out on the bike and somehow your difficult problems get pushed into the background. Then, when they’re ready, they come popping back to the foreground…but they’re not as difficult as before.

 

I’ve Learned to Lose Myself

Every once in a while on a nice long ride, there will come a few miles where I go completely blank. I’m never aware of going into that state, but I’m always aware of coming out of it. And I realize, wow, I haven’t thought about anything for…well…I don’t know how long. Was it a minute? Five? How far did I go? What did I see? What was going on in my head? I never have answers to any of those questions, but I always feel great afterward.

I don’t know anything about Zen, but I’m pretty sure this blankness is a state they strive toward. I know Schopenhauer called it “the sublime,” but he went after it in all the wrong ways. Schopenhauer should have bought a bike.

 

I’ve Learned I Love the Outdoors

My dad is an avid hunter and fisherman. I — to his dismay — am not. I don’t have anything against either, I just couldn’t get into them as a kid (and believe me, I tried). Somehow, I got that all monkeyed up in my head and thought this meant that I didn’t like the outdoors.

Wrong.

Once I started mountain biking, I discovered I love the outdoors. And I have seen a lot of it. I’ve seen banana slugs as big as bananas. I’ve seen stars while out in the desert; there are a lot more of them than I had realized. I’ve seen wildflowers high up in the Uintas. I’ve seen moose and elk and mountain lions and foxes and raccoons and porcupines and skunks and rabbits and bears and deer (countless deer).

 

So, yeah. Biking comes with its bumps and bruises. And scars and occasional permanent debilitating injuries and death. But hey. Lots of upside, right?

 

Bonus Halloweenage: My eldest is going as one of the “greasers” from The Outsiders, which everyone in his class is reading right now. That stage makeup class my wife took back in college comes in mighty handy when it’s time to make a realistic-looking bruise, no? Second eldest is taking the easy way out: a cap and a pipe can be whipped out at a moment’s notice to make a Sherlock. And the twins (yes, they're identical) are, naturally, princesses.

 

 

 

Last night I was thinking about how little people change. By which I mean that I was thinking that people in general change very little, as opposed to thinking about whether midgets have the ability to transmogrify. Although when you think about it, that would be a pretty cool sidekick-level superpower to have: “Mini-Metamorph: Able to transform into any compact item at will!”

Wow. It didn’t take me long to get off track today, did it?

Anyway, biking has definitely changed me during the ten-plus years I’ve been riding. Both physically and mentally. Today I'm going to talk about the physical part. Monday, I'll talk about how biking has changed me mentally.

Unless I forget or change my mind.

 

First Change: My Ring Finger

Back when I was first mountain biking — maybe just a year or so into it — one of my riding group’s favorite yardsticks was the Frank time trial: how fast could you do the seven mile mountain bike trail? The first time I tried doing it for time, I was as nervous as I ever have been for any race. After all, since Frank has a lot of climbing and a technical descent, your time said a lot about what kind of mountain biker you are.

I took the downhill what I like to call “aggressively,” and what my friends would call “spastically and out of control.” In a banked chute toward the end of the ride I picked a bad line and supermanned off my bike, landing with all my weight on my hands. That hurt.

I was so intent on finishing with a good time, though, that I didn’t even worry about my left hand, which I otherwise probably would have made all kinds of whiney noises about. Instead, I got back on my bike and finished the loop. I remember getting a 1:06, which was respectable for a new rider — I think the fast guys were doing it eight minutes faster.

When I got back to work, I thought about calling a doctor, because the tip of my ring finger seemed to be pointing at an odd angle: up at a 30-degree angle. Then I decided not to bother. It continues to point at that weird angle even today. I think my typing has improved because of it.

 

Most Bothersome, Persistently Painful Change: My Right Shoulder

Whenever my friends and I go to Moab, you can bet that one of the rides we’ll do is a Reverse Porcupine. This simply means that we ride part of the famous Porcupine Rim, but we ride up the part most people come down. This section of trail ridden in this way is full of difficult moves, and provides an excellent opportunity for technically skilled riders to show off their talents…and for technically unskilled riders to fall a lot.

Guess which category I belong in?

Maybe seven years ago, I was trying one of what I thought was the safest of these moves: do a slow-mo 120-degree left turn around a scrub oak, thread the needle between two tight rocks, and then wheelie up a ledge. I didn’t expect to make it, but I wasn’t scared of trying.

Then, at almost exactly zero miles per hour, as I pivoted around the scrub oak, I lost it. The sand kept me from getting out of my pedals in time and I fell over heavily on my right side, sending the combined force of my weight and falling momentum through my outstretched right hand and up my arm.

The screams were incredible.

I had dislocated my shoulder for the first time, and I can promise you the first time is the worst. And that is where what is now known as the “Elden Wail” was first heard.

After I was able to stop screaming — yes, screaming — I walked my bike (I couldn’t ride with a dislocated shoulder and I didn’t know how to set it back then) back to my car and drove the three hours home to go to the hospital, where the emergency room doctor put my shoulder back where it belongs.

My shoulder now pops out quite easily, thank you, and while it still hurts each time, I now know what to do. But I can’t sleep on my right side, I can’t throw, I can’t rotate my right arm in certain ways or lift it very high, and I always know when it’s going to rain.

And as an aside, I think it's a testament of my friends' dedication to their craft — as well as their quality as human beings — that nobody volunteered to go back with me. Hey, at least I know where I stand.

Jerks.

 

Most Visible Change: My Lip

I've talked about this wreck before, but essentially I wiped out on one of my favorite trails (Dry Canyon, coming down off Frank) one day for no apparent reason. I tore my lip all the way to just below my nose. I guess it says something about me that when the doctor gave me suggestions on steps I could follow to minimize the visibility of the scar — as well as a recommendation for a plastic surgeon who could essentially make it disappear — I brushed it off.

So now I have a nice, white scar that is always visible — increasingly so with every day I skip shaving. I sometimes wish my wreck would have a more interesting story behind it, but at least I got it while doing what I love best. And by "what I love best," I am referring to biking, not wrecking and sliding on my face. I just want to be clear on that point.

The only really unfortunate thing about this scar is that it totally screws up my goatee. I used to be able to grow one of the nicest goatees you had ever seen — when combined with my sinister-looking eyebrows, this beard made me look intense, as well as evil. Complete strangers would stop and comment on how evil I looked. "Hey, fat dude on a bike, you look full-on wicked evil!" they would say.

Now, however, the scar breaks up the beard and makes it look asymmetrical. Alas.

 

Best Change: My Legs

I sometimes like to imagine the me from the present challenging the me from the past to a bike race. Even though I weigh about ten pounds more than I did when I first started riding, I am absolutely confident I could kick my own past tense self's butt. "Who is that fast, fat guy with the scar on his lip?" the me from the past would ask.

The thing is, riding a bike for ten years or so changes your legs. Even at my fattest and most out of shape, I could — with total confidence — challenge some generally ultra-fit non-cyclist to a bike race and utterly humiliate him. Or her, I guess, except I'm married and even before I was married was not the kind of person who would casually challenge women to sports contests. Mercy, I am a rambling fool today.

Anyway, this base of leg fitness stays with you. Once or twice, I've stopped biking during the winter and picked it up again in the spring. Sure, you hurt at first, but it's nothing like starting over.

I don't know: maybe if I stopped riding for a full year, that magical leg strength would vanish, but I prefer to think instead that by biking all these years, my legs are now fundamentally and permanently different from what they were before.

And that change — to me — easily makes all the other changes worth it. Because those physical changes are the entry fee for the mental changes — which I will, as I've mentioned, talk about Monday, and which are not, in spite of today's post, absentmindedness and a tendency to ramble.

 

We're Not So Different, You and I

I doubt that any cyclist — especially of the mountain biking variety — has ridden for more than a year or two without getting some sort of permanent personal souvenir (which is my overwrought way of saying "injury"). But we're all willing to live with the inevitability.

So, two questions for you: what have you got to show for your years of riding, and was it worth it?

 

Today's weight: 162.2. Which I'm sure has nothing to do with all the bite-sized candy bars laying around the house, which should be Halloween candy, but which have a low probability of surviving to Halloween.

 

Bonus Office Entertainment: Apart from general pansiness, I had a motive for driving to work a couple days ago: I was bringing in a chinup bar, which I have installed in my office doorway. My idea is to do 3-5 chinups, several times per day, trying to improve my pathetic upper body strength. What's fun, though, is watching other people eye the chinup bar as they go by. Some look at it briefly and dismiss it, some stop and test it, then walk away. So far, nobody has actually done a chinup on it. I am currently developing theories on why this is so.

Well.

I'd like to say that I enjoyed reading your comments to yesterday's post, but that would, sadly, be a lie. Not because you hurt my feelings — far from it. Rather, because the bulk of you are tepid, craven souls, transparent in your greed even as you try to muster the courage to utter an ill-conceived, trite, and usually derivative remark.

But that wasn't what really got to me.

No. It was how obvious you are. I have laid bare my soul for months now, and the only barb most of you could find had to do with that day's post? Really, that was all the ammo you could find? You're as lazy as you are unimaginative.

On the rare occasion somebody made a clever remark, I noticed it was rapidly and shamelessly replicated, with only minor variety. Did you think I wouldn't notice that? Well, did you? You sicken me.

I hereby award the bag to myself.

Just kidding.

Here are a few of my favorites from yesterday's contest:

 

Most Elegant

Fatty,

You lowly sheath. I dignify your baseness by a mere response to your sorry whine. Stand, man, stand by God. Stand and walk as a man from your shame and sorrow. Feign bravery for a moment that we, your sad ensemble of fellow betrayed followers may have just one shred, one scintilla, of dignity. Get thee on your alloy steed and make us proud again. You fatty; sorry, lumpish, and melancholy. You soft and dull eyed fool. Ride, ride, RIDE!!!

Apologies to the bard.

— jimserotta

Fatty replies: This was very nearly the overall winner, but then he had to go and apologize to the bard. If you're going to plagiarize, go big and bold, Jim.

 

Best Vocabulary

Dear FC

When this blog began you were fat. Some would say obese. But more importantly, you were indefatigable. Full of piss and vinegar. Now you have become a slightly less fat faineant snob unwilling to risk scraping your knee or slipping on a wet leaf.

''Ohh, Ohh. life is hard. Waaahh!"

Wrong. Life is easy, YOU suck!

Maybe you should be concerned more with learning bicycle handling and less with coming up with excuses for your pitiful self. Sorry to break it to FC, but you are actually just another chaffy cager.

— craig

Fatty replies: "Fainéant?" Who are you calling "fainéant?" (Looks up word) Well, whaddaya know. That's actually a really good word for me.

 

Special "Stuffing the Ballot Box" Award

Scared of water. Scared of leaves. Scared of wind. Exactly how much of a sissy are you?

I know why real cyclists shave their legs. And now I know why you do too. You're a fatty, AND A GIRLY!

— BIG Mike

 

When we finally meet, I was planning on buying you a coffee and spending a day riding and chatting, but the plan now is to give you a wedgy and walk away laughing.

Between myself, little-d-dug, rocky and the kickboxing counsellor I think we should be able to administer a wedgy that will land you about 3 stories up.

— BIG Mike

 

I want my PB Oreos back! I thought you earned them but you're just a spineless charlatan. Your seemily steadfast dedication to all things manpowered and shiny was nothing but a Seigfried and Roy quality smoke and mirrors show.

Price check on check-out 12. Floaties, knee pads, elbow pads, shoulder-pads... AND A DUMMY.

You can either spit it like you did yesterday or suck on it like the coward we have all witnessed you become.

— BIG Mike

 

I was already good at taking the fastest talkers down a notch or two. Always in fun and never if the victims seemed unstable or suicidal. That was before the deer in the headlights who calls himself 'The Fat Cyclist'.

You may have had gender re-alignment surgery and not noticed. You should go to the doctor and have yourself checked. Men who run squealing from inanimate objects like leaves, water, wind and stuffed toys (OK, I made the last one up) are not really men.

If you don't grow a backbone and some cajones in double quick time you will certainly grow a callous on your butt, a gut over your belt and a John Candy chin.

— BIG Mike

 

You want more? I got more, sissy boy. I just don't want to be the one that makes you kick the chair away while you're testing the rope in your basement.

 — BIG Mike

 

Oh yeah, I forgot.

Who's going to finish the other half of that sit up you started when you climbed out of bed this morning? Obviously not you. You can't finish what you start.

I hope your nurse tells you a nice bed time story after lowering you onto the pillow and tucking you in.

— BIG Mike

 

And the Winner…

Oh, Fatty, where did I go wrong with you? I always tried to raise my five daughters to be strong, and I thought I had succeeded:

Kellene- takes 18 ft. falls and barely flinches. She climbs back up the cliff with her bike on her back and rides home.

Lori- has the cojones to move half-way across this country to pursue her art. Stepping out of her comfort zone to confront her fears head on, like I always taught you.

Errorista- deals with people I am afraid to be in the same county with, let alone the same room, and she remains strong. I won’t even mention the Muay Thai training.

CJ- another warrior daughter. Stands up for her convictions even if it comes with a risk to her chosen career. Oh, she is so strong.

And then there is you, my dear. Sure, I was disappointed when it became obvious you would be the ugliest of my daughters, but when I first saw you ride your little Strawberry Shortcake bike I knew you too would be another strong Nelson daughter. My co-workers would laugh at me for sticking up for my fat, boyish little girl, but I would think about all the good you were doing by inspiring other fat, boyish little girls, and fat, girlish little boys to ride.

And then you began an inspirational blog and inspired many more with your writings of adventurous rides. I would tell my co-workers that you were like the US Postal Service: through wind, rain, sleet, snow, or heat of day you would ride.

But now you have brought this travesty upon our family name, and I can no longer return to work with my head held high. I’m sorry, honey, but I must disown you out of loyalty to the family. I only wish I had had a son, and had the chance to mold him into a man. A man who did not fear wet leaves.

Regretfully,

 

Your Father

(Actually, by nikared)

Fatty replies: Nice writing, Nikared. Although a part of me is just a smidgen creeped out that you know so much about my family. Email me with your address and I'll send you that seat bag.

 

Today's weight: 162.6

 

BONUS: New Cyclingnews article published: My story, "How to be a Bike Snob," an excerpt of which I posted here at the beginning of this week, is now online at Cyclingnews.com. Click here to read it now. 

My bike ride home last night was not my most favoritest ride ever. For one thing, I didn't get away from work until it was completely dark. For another thing, it was raining. For another thing, there was a stiff, gusty wind.

I want to point out, though, that these things did not deter me. They did not frighten me. After all, I am a manly man, confident in my ability to ride a bike in whatever nature chooses to dish out.

And for a while, the ride was fun. I had a good rain jacket on, the wool socks kept my feet from getting too cold, and I had plenty of battery power for the ride home, even though this marked the first commute of the year where I had to have the lights on in both directions.

And then I hit the leaves.

 

No, We Are Not Having Fun Yet.

The wind had pretty much denuded the trees along E. Lake Sammamish Pkwy, and that is a road with a lot of trees. Cars had then effectively moved the leaves and pine needles onto the shoulders of the road, making an ultra-slick, six-inch-deep, five-mile-long, pile of wet leaves and pine needles.

I have a convenient and rather clever way of telling when I'm not having fun. When I start thinking about how I'm about to die and that the timing of my death is really poor because I've got cute kids and a good wife and a new job I actually like and — yes, I can admit it — a blog that is about as rewarding to write as anything I've ever written, well, that's a pretty good indicator that I'm not having very much fun.

Riding through this was not fun.

The gusting crosswind coming off the lake that wanted to knock me into the car lane was also contributing to the not-fun-ness of yesterday's ride home.

I decided that bikes are stupid and that I was going to drive to work the next day, if I happened to survive.

 

Envy

So this morning, I drove to work. As soon as I got onto the first arterial road, though, I could tell it was a mistake. The rain had eased to a drizzle. The leaves had mysteriously vanished from the road's shoulder. And traffic was backed up for the entirety of the five mile stretch of E. Lake Sammamish Pkwy. I idled along, listening to NPR Morning Edition (note to Miers, Rove, Frist, Libby, Miller, and Delay: please try to speed things up; I'm losing interest here), never going faster than parking lot speeds.

Within the first mile, two bikes cruised by me, the riders talking with each other and enjoying the ride. I've never been so envious in my life. What was I doing in a car?

Another cyclist passed me. I checked out his bike. Junk. Then I realize: I'm a bike snob in a car, judging a bike on the road. I beat my head against the steering wheel to underscore my frustration.

Outside today, the just-rained smell is combined with the clean evergreen smell that comes with the good airing out of the entire state of Washington we had last night. It smells, in short, like heaven. If I had been on my bike, I would have enjoyed that smell the whole way to work today.

But I drove. And in a couple hours, I'll drive home…nice and slow, I'm sure.

Not tomorrow, though. Tomorrow, I ride. No matter what.

 

Insult Fatty, Get Free Stuff

Here's how you can win a cool Banjo Brothers seat bag in the inaugural "Free Stuff Wednesday" (which is today, just in case you can't tell). Post a comment telling me what a dork I am for not biking to work today. I will, completely subjectively, pick my favorite comment and send that person a cool bag. Entries will be judged on whether I like them or not. Entries that use anything like foul language or vulgar implications will not only not win, but will be deleted without comment or explanation. In other words, show me how smart and mean you can be, not that you know a bunch of bad words. I'll pick the winner tomorrow about this time and will announce the winner in my blog.

C'mon, show me what you got. And then go visit Banjo Brothers. They've got seriously cool gear to help you carry stuff on your bike — which means you can ride your car less. Which means you can envy other cyclists less, and be envied by car drivers more.

There, I brought it around full circle.

 

Today's weight: I forgot to check. It's been a day of massive discombobulation.

Jake and I have been on several of the same rides this year. We were both at the Leadville 100. We both rode the Zoo. We both did the Issaquah Alps. Until last Saturday, though, we hadn't ridden together.

Saturday, Jake took me out on a cyclist's tour of Seattle. I started from my house, arrived at our meet-up spot (a coffee shop, as is required by law in Seattle), and told him that since he knew the area much better than I do, he was in charge of the ride. "Wherever you like," I said. "I'm not fast, but I can ride pretty much all day without tiring."

Famous last words.

 

Control is Power

I'm about to say several nasty things about Jake, so I should problably make it clear up front: Jake took me on a great ride. You see, I usually head off into the country on my road rides, because it's impossible for me to get lost if the road never turns. Jake, however, knows Seattle inside and out, and so we took off toward the ocean.

So now, after having lived in the area for 1.5 years, I can finally say that I've ridden my bike from my home (Sammamish) to the waterfront. We rode along bike trails at Elliot Bay, we rode by the stadium where fans were gathering for the Huskies / USC game, we rode on Mercer Island, we rode by Queen Anne, we rode through numerous parks, up and down short, steep windy hills.

And for the first twenty-five miles or so, I was fine. In fact, I can't remember having such a nice ride in a long time. The weather was good, Jake's a great guy to talk with, we ride at the same pace, and I was seeing stuff I hadn't seen before.

Then, at about mile 25, we were headed along what I thought was going to be a nice, long, gentle downhill…when Jake took a right turn ahead of me and started climbing.

Man, I just wasn't ready for that.

I'm no complainer, though, nosirree. I shifted down and started churning up, just wondering to myself, "aren't we headed away from home now?"

Jake, meanwhile, happily spun along.

Then, a few minutes later, he did it again. And then again. He kept turning uphill whenever he could. "He's messing with me," I thought, as I dropped into my granny and struggled to stay with him. But what could I do? This was his ride. And I had, after all, billed myself as the "Ride All Day, Never Get Tired" guy.

So I smiled, told Jake what a great ride it was (because it was in fact a great ride — it was me who wasn't so great), and drafted behind him whenever I could.

 

Exploit the Advantage

This is not the first time the Home Court Advantage riding technique has been used against me, either. For some reason, knowing the course is an important part of how strong I'm going to be throughout the ride. 142 miles on desert doubletrack on a mountain bike over the course of 18 hours? Done it, and could do it again. Three hours on moderately hilly roads in Seattle, Washington? Totally wiped me out.

I've observed this effect on other people, too. In particular, I once took Rocky out mountain biking at my old favorite trail in Utah: Frank. He had ridden Frank before, and so knew what to expect; Rocky had no trouble at all staying with — or often, riding ahead of — me. When I switched things up on him, though, by turning onto a 4.3 mile brutal uphill climb called Squaw Peak (a long paved climb that leads to an exquisitely intense technical downhill), Rocky discombobulated. He hadn't factored the Squaw climb in. I had used the bait-and-switch, combined with the Home Court Advantage, to soundly defeat a cyclist several notches my superior.

It's a technique I plan to use again. Preferably, on Jake.

 

Today's weight: 163.2

 

PS: I'm double-plus-happy to have the Banjo Brothers along as a sponsor of the Fat Cyclist. What does it mean to be a sponsor of the Fat Cyclist? Nobody seems to know, but we do know that it will involve me giving away a cool Banjo Brothers Seat Bag (you know, the tiny little pouch that fits under your bike seat) for each of the next few Wednesdays, at least.

PPS: Thanks for the Nalgene water bottle, Rocky. For the first time ever, I finally have a water bottle that tastes like nothing. Fits great in the bottle cage, too.

PPPS: Sometime yesterday afternoon, this blog crossed the 500,000 page view threshold. Huzzah!

Yesterday, I bought a ticket to Salt Lake City. So now there’s no backing out. I’m going to Fall Moab 2006 (or, if you’re one of the few people in the world who still thinks in terms of calendar years rather than fiscal, you can quaintly call it "Fall Moab 2005"). Fall Moab is an annual event where an increasingly large group (close to 20 this year, it looks like) of mountain biking buddies gets together and goes riding for three days in and around Moab, UT — the desert MTB capital of the universe.

This means I need to get a mountain bike, pronto. It means that I’m going to have to shave my legs again. It means I’m going to get banged up, and cut up: it happens to every single one of us, every single year. And it means I’m going to have more fun than I do at any other event of the year.

Most importantly, though, it means I need to brush up on my trash-talking skills.

 

Why is Trash Talking Important?

Know this: When a group of cyclists gets together for what they call a “friendly group ride,” they’re speaking in code. What they actually mean is, “We’re getting together to bare our teeth and snarl at each other for fifteen minutes, after which we will climb on our bikes and see who is the alpha cyclist — the dominant rider of the pack, the one who chooses the course, who picks the pace, who keeps the other wolves in line.”

You see, the group ride isn’t just a group riding together. It’s an important ritual, an essential component of which is the pre-ride (and sometimes, during-ride) trash talking. It’s during the pre-ride trash talking that you discover other riders’ intentions. Who is in contention? Who is weak? Who can be damaged psychologically before the ride, making them more susceptible to a bluff attack during the ride?

It’s a beautiful dance, really. And I’m sadly out of practice.

 

Techniques for Beginners

I’ve done some research into cyclist trash talking behavior, and have uncovered some patterns even novices can use to good effect.

• Feigned concern: “You’ve had a hard time keeping up lately. Are you OK? I can tell the group to go easy today if you want.” Or, “Man, that’s a pretty technical move; I don’t think I clean it more than six out of ten tries. You may want to skip it; you don’t want to get hurt.”
• Cloaked boast: “Dude, that is a seriously nice bike. Every time I ride with you, I can’t help but admire that thing. How much does that thing weigh, sixteen pounds? Sheesh, that’s light. I wonder how I manage to keep up with you, what with my bike weighing around twenty pounds, and my goiter acting up.”
• Anti-trash talk: “Could we go easy today? I just had a kidney removed, and am still a little sore. Plus, you guys look like you’re really strong — I’m not sure I can hang.” Important note: Do not use this technique unless you are certain that you can hang with the group, even if they ramp up into the red zone and stay there. If you miscalculate and your anti-trash talk turned out to be an accurate prediction of the day’s events, you will be known as a hangdog, whiney, weakling complainer.
• Question and followup: “So, how are you feeling today?” (Wait for response.) “Seriously, you feel good? Because you look like you’ve gained some weight. I’m sure that’s just because you’re wearing a padded jacket, though.” (Wait for response.) “Oh, really? No padding at all? Well, that’s weird.”
• Power play: “I look out at this group, and I see nothing that impresses me. Oh well, I guess I can treat this as a recovery day.” Important note: This is a risky technique. If you use this, be aware that anything apart from absolute domination will be perceived as failure.

Tips for Advanced Trash Talkers

There was a time when people used to remark that I was the meanest person they knew, once I actually started saying what I was thinking. In days of yore I have shut people down — so completely dumbfounded them with my trash talk that backing it up with performance on the bike seemed beside the point.

That, alas, was years ago. I am now so out of practice with advanced trash talking (I have young children who don’t exactly thrive on that kind of feedback), that I must rely primarily on other, more skilled trash talkers for these advanced techniques. Thanks (I guess) to Dug and Simeon, both of whom I no longer consider friends.

• Post Mortem Trash Talk: Simeon, the guy who I rode with for most of the Issaquah Alps randonneuring event — until he shot off the front and demolished me in the final hour — sent me this e-mail the day following the ride:

I realized some time after the ride that you were actually suffering from a cold or worse (the dripping nose gave it away), but it was still good to finish ahead of you.

In one elegant sentence, Simeon reminded me that he cleaned my clock, said I looked gross, and provided me with an excuse we both knew wasn’t true; the implied subtext of the “proffered excuse ploy” is: “What? You didn’t have a cold? Well, why were you so slow, then?” This kind of masterful post mortem trash talk instills fear in your opponent (and let’s be clear: everyone is your opponent). This fear will grow and fester until — and beyond — the next ride. I am now terrified of Simeon.

• Get Personal: If someone has a gut, use the gut to your advantage, even if man-with-gut is kicking your butt and dropping you. Ask probing questions: “Does your gut get in the way of your legs on the upstroke?” “Do you think you’d go faster if you lost some weight?” If your target does not respond, you can be confident both that he hears you and that you are being effective.
• Do Not Back Down: If your target appears to be sensitive, this is not the time to back off. Run up the score. This is a good time to get experimental. Try some techniques you've been keeping until they're ready.
• Exploit Admitted Weaknesses: If your target acknowledges an actual, diagnosable problem that will slow him down, it's time to lean in. For example, if he says, “Well, jeez, I just had a heart attack this afternoon and am taking beta blockers that slow me down quite a bit,” he has just made your job easier, not harder. Immediately respond by rolling your eyes and saying, "Oh, playing the heart attack card. Nice. You know, I have technically been a corpse for three months now. It’s never slowed me down.”
• Acknowledge: If your opponent comes up with something ridiculously good, you have to recognize. It's a community effort. Immediately incorporate the learned technique into your own arsenal.

Today’s weight: 159.4

One thing all cyclists — and nobody else in the world — know is that road biking and mountain biking are only distant cousins. They’re hardly related, really. Sure, both kinds of bikes have a superficial resemblance (though that’s disappearing, as many full-suspension mountain bikes have started looking more like motorcycles), but the way they work you out is different, the mood that makes you ride them is different, and the kind of fun you have is entirely different.

What I’ve been thinking about lately, though, is what I think might be the most telling difference of all: how you react to the unexpected is different.

 

The Treacherous Speed Bump

I’ve been riding the track bike a lot lately. Time will tell whether that’s because of the novelty of it or because fixed gear riding is going to be my thing, but for right now, that’s the bike I’m choosing when I have a choice (ie, when it’s not raining).

But I’m still making lots of mistakes.

There are some big speed bumps on the road through Marymoor park, which I go through on the way to work. On my regular road bike, I always stood up and coasted over those.

So of course without thinking about it, I tried to do the same thing on the fixie. But as I stood up, my crank stayed in motion, propelling me forcefully up and forward as the right crank rotated up. This happened, of course, as I went over the speed bump. This put me in a nose wheelie. On a fixie. At about 18mph.

In reality, the rear wheel probably was never more than six inches above the ground, but it felt like I was about to do a high-speed road endo. Luckily, I managed to sit down, and there was no traffic on the road, so my embarrassment was mine and mine alone to enjoy (until now, of course).

 

Crazy Legs

That’s not my only recent near-miss on the track bike. On short, moderate downhills, I’ve been trying to use my own power to keep the fixie’s speed under control. That’s worked fine.

When I tried to do that on a long, fairly steep downhill, though, I wound up going faster and faster — my legs weren’t able to exert reverse force quickly enough to keep up. Before long, the bike had my legs spinning so fast I started bumping up and down in my seat. I was close enough to out of control that I was afraid to move my left hand out of the drops even for the short time it took to grab the front brake. That was the only option, though, and I managed to bring the bike’s speed (and my legs) back under control before getting to the stoplight. Which I’m going to go ahead and call a good thing.

 

Hairpin

My closest call on a road bike, though, was when I was coming down the Alpine Loop one day. It was one of those rides where everything is going perfectly. You’re feeling fast, you’re nailing the turns, and your bike feels more like a part of you than a machine has any right to feel.

And then I hit a turn I didn’t expect. As I came out of a fast sweeping right turn, I expected the road to straighten. Instead, it turned sharply left. To the side of the road was gravel, then a steep bank that went down and down and down.

I was going about 35 entering the turn, and knew as I approached the apex there was no way I was going to make it. I locked up both brakes and — instead of high-siding like I should have — I skidded to a stop in the gravel. I got off the bike and walked around for ten minutes, ‘til the adrenaline shakes finally wore off and I could ride again.

 

Mountain Near Misses

The thing about mountain biking is, you have near misses all the time. On “Frank,” my closest mountain bike ride back in Utah, you start the ride by zooming downhill on ledgy singletrack, with a 50-foot drop six inches to your right. I’ve put a foot down to keep myself from falling off that cliff several times.

On Grove (another favorite mountain bike ride back in UT), you’re riding on loose shale with a steep, sharp slide 100 feet down to the river just one dab away at all times.

In Leadville one year, coming down the Powerline trail, I dropped my front wheel into an erosion trench and managed to clip out as I got ejected over the front of my bike. I’ll never know how I managed to land on my feet, but I did. Better yet, my bike came flying after me. I caught it, righted it, and kept on going. It was the most beautiful near-miss of my life.

The fact is, just about any time you’re on a mountain bike, you’re in a state of near miss.

 

The Big Difference

And that — I think — is the real distinguishing factor between mountain biking and road biking. When I’m on a road bike, I’m all about control. A near miss on a road bike represents a failure and is downright mortifying — not to mention terrifying.

A near miss on a mountain bike, on the other hand, makes you laugh. You seek the near miss out. Really, a near miss on a mountain bike means…well…that you’re out mountain biking.

 

Today’s weight: 160.4

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been having to quit work by 5:30 if I want to bike home if I want to avoid riding home in the dark. And before that, I’d been skipping a couple of bike commutes because of the rain.

Well, the rain isn’t going to stop — this is Seattle — and it’s only going to get darker. And this year, I want to bike through the whole winter.

So over the weekend, I finished “winterizing” my bike.

 

Fender Heaven

I had fenders on my road bike last year — briefly. They were always rubbing on the wheels and making rattling noises. Then at a start once, my toe caught the bottom of the front fender and tore it loose, after which I just got rid of the fenders and abandoned Winter riding for the year. Yeah, that was the year I got up to 192 lbs.

This year, I did things a little smarter. I took my road bike in to Sammamish Valley Cycle, where Kent Peterson said they specialize in fitting fenders to road bikes. $30 for the fenders, $20 for the labor.

It was the deal of the century.

I’m honestly not even sure what brand these fenders used to be, and it almost doesn’t matter. By the time these guys finished cutting, fitting, zip-tie-ing, and ad-hoc-bracketing these fenders, they were a Sammamish Valley Cycle Special. They don’t rub, they don’t rattle more than is reasonable, and they fit my bike and give me great coverage.

With these on, riding in the rain has beeen nowhere near as miserable. I don’t love it — I doubt I’ll ever seek out a ride just because it’s raining — but it’s no longer a reason to abandon the ride.

 

I Will Not Call This Subheading “Let There Be Light,” Because Everyone Who Has Ever Written About Bike Lights Has Used the Subheading “Let There Be Light.”

One of the things I like about living in the NW is how much daylight you get in the summer. I mean, you get great heaping globs of daylight. It gets light at 5 and doesn’t get dark ‘til 10.

On the flip side, though, is fall and winter. Already, it doesn’t get light ‘til around 8, and it’s close to dark by 6. And it’s going to get much, much darker. If I didn’t have a good light setup, I could just forget about biking to work.

Luckily, years of mountain biking at night has left me with all the lights I could need. I’m using a NiteRider setup I’ve had for years. It only holds about a 90 minute charge, but that’s enough for commuting, and with dual halogen beams, it’s super bright. I’ve zip-tied the bottle cage-mounted battery in so it won’t rattle out, then uses more zip ties to route the cable along the bottom side of the top tube. Then, by setting the switch and status indicator up on the stem, I’ve left most of the handlebars free.

 

Interlude: An Ode to Zip Ties

Between the fenders and the light setup, I estimate I have 16 or more zip ties on my bike now. Apart from duct tape, has there ever been a more useful thing in the world? I love their elegant simplicity. I love how cheap they are. I love that you don't need any tools at all to use them. I love the sound they make as they go on. I love how snugly they hold stuff together. I love how you can chain them together to make as big a fastener as you like. I love that when you want to remove them, you just snip them with scissors or cut them with a knife.

Let's hear it from zip ties. Yay.

 

Carrying More Stuff

In the summer, it’s easy to fit everything I need for my commute into a small messenger bag: shorts, t-shirt, towel, computer and that’s about it. When biking to work in the Fall and Winter, I find it’s almost impossible to fit everything into my old Timbuktu messenger bag.

What you’re looking at here is:

• long pants
• t-shirt
• sweater
• socks
• towel
• tights for trip home
• long-sleeved jersey for trip home
• computer in carrying case

All this doesn’t even come close to fitting in my messenger bag. And with all the rain and crud, I wouldn’t dare put the computer in, anyway.

Luckily for me, a little startup company — Banjo Brothers — has sent me a prototype of their big messenger bag to test. The thing’s got a 2000 inch capacity, so it holds all of this stuff, easily (and it came with a computer sleeve, which is nice), and so far seems totally weather-proof.

I’ve only had this a couple days, but it seems like it may be just the thing for making it possible to bike commute right through the winter. Expect to hear more on this bag as I get used to it.

 

Weight Penalty

Of course, a big bag with all that gear isn’t light. I’m carrying about 14 pounds on my back, including up Inglewood Hill (slooooowwly) at the end of each day. Plus, between the fenders and the lights, my road bike now weighs about the same as a mid-priced mountain bike: 23.2 lbs. I’m not sure why, but you can really feel that five pounds on a road bike — a lot more than you can feel it on yourself. The bike is hard to get up to speed and just doesn’t feel as limber.

I guess, though, that riding in the fall and winter isn’t about speed, it’s just about staying on your bike. I figure if I can do that, I’ll have a better chance of keeping the weight off.

 

Today's weight: 163.2

 

Every year about this time, I start thinking: maybe I should start running again. After all, cross-training is good for you, right? Plus my buddy John and I have a tradition of signing up for the Death Valley Marathon each year (I did a writeup on this race back in 2003, posted below as a surprise bonus for people who feel they deserve to be punished), so I ought to start training for it, right?

No.

I’m not going to run.

Ever again.

This is why.

 

Guilty Relief

Last January, my training for the Death Valley Marathon went especially badly. I was the heaviest I had ever been in my life (around 192 pounds), due to steroids and holiday overindulgence, not to mention some pretty half-hearted training. I was planning to do the marathon with John, but had no expectations of doing much running. I was a very solid back-of-the-pack bet.

So when John called me from the hospital — five days before the race — saying he was going to have to bail on the race, due to the fact that he had had a heart attack that day, I had three reactions:

• Relief that he was OK.
• Concern that since John had a heart attack, I was probably at risk, too – he and I are very similar in the way we train, eat, and live.
• Joy that I now had an ironclad excuse for not doing the race. Not as ironclad as John’s, but close enough.

I have not run since. Man, that sport could kill you.

 

Irrefutable Logic

I actually understand why runners run. They run for a lot of the same reasons cyclists ride: It’s a good workout. You can do it right out your front door. You get to be outside and see a little bit of the world. When you do it right, you get that endorphin rush and feel great.

Sadly, these reasons are not sufficient. Here is what is wrong with running:

• It pounds the crud out of you. As you bike and get in better shape, you hurt less and less. That’s because your muscles are getting stronger and you’re not slamming all your weight and force into your joints several times per second. This cannot be said of running. Runners spend all this time stretching and warming up and cooling down, but they all wind up hobbling around with screwed-up joints anyway. Basically, I’m willing to endure muscle soreness because I know that’s part of the process of building fitness. Joint soreness is just the path to more joint soreness.
• Lack of variety. When I get tired of road biking, I mountain bike. Or I get out the fixie. Or try cyclocross. With running, you get to do what to mix it up? Run really fast instead of at your normal pace? Run on trails instead of road? Maybe skip or hop? Or run backwards? When I bike, I never use an MP3 player, because there’s so much going on, my mind stays plenty busy. When I run, on the other hand, I need an MP3 player desperately. Because otherwise the tedium is Just. Too. Much. Here's a thought: If an essential part of your exercise gear is a gadget that helps you keep your mind off that exercise, maybe it's time to switch sports.
• Lack of cool gear. OK, I admit this is a throwaway point, but if you’re a gear geek like me, you know what I’m talking about. With biking, there’s new frames and components and clothes and helmets and measuring apparatus! With running, there’s shoes (oh yes, lots and lots of shoes) and shorts and … socks? Maybe special running underwear? Headbands?
• It injures you without giving you a cool scar, nor a story to tell. Both runners and cyclists get injured while doing their thing. That’s just a given. For cyclists, every injury has an accompanying story that can be treasured, tweaked, and told for decades to come. I admit that there have been times when, even as I writhed in pain, a little part of me was working on the description of how bad I hurt. Runners, on the other hand, get to talk about how they were jogging along when — spung! — their kneecaps fell off, due to overuse. Hey, if you’re going to suffer, you may as well have a story to tell. In short: when biking, you accept that something surprising and dangerous may happen to you while you're biking. With running, you accept that you are injuring yourself because you're running.

Call to Action

Runners, please: Quit running. Buy a bike. You’ll go faster. You’ll hurt less often. When you do hurt, you’ll have a nice little anecdote to share.

I’m glad I could clear this up for you.

 

Today's weight: 159.8. OK, I'm done. Just going to try to keep it here for a few months, then drop to 150 for the race season; I'll start on that in March.

 

Clarification of what "I'm Done" means: It just means I've hit my goal weight for the off-season. I'm not going to stop writing, I'm not going to stop training, I'm not going to stop dieting, I'm not going to stop going on massive burrito binges. I'm not even going to stop having the Fat Cyclist Weekly Weigh-in Sweepstakes. I'm just going to try to stabilize my weight for a few months before making the next big race season weight loss push, where I'll try to get as close to 150 as I possibly can.

In February of 2003, a neighbor of mine (John) and I ran the Death Valley Marathon. I figured that since I -- theoretically, at least -- was going to do an offroad marathon as part of the Mountain Extreme Triathlon that summer [note: I chickened out], I'd better have done at least one marathon beforehand. Since this was to be an all-offroad marathon, it seemed like a good choice.

John and I took Friday off from work, because we figured Death Valley -- 2 1/2 hours out of Las Vegas -- would be around a 10-hour drive from Orem. Well, there aren't a lot of curves in that road, not a lot of reasons to go slow, and I have a car that likes going fast. We got there in under 8 hours. We had plenty of time for a little siteseeing (the Devil's Golf Course is the most surreal thing I have ever seen), a big dinner, and then off to bed. We'd need to be up early for the race.

Saturday morning we got our race bibs and then gathered around the race director for his race instructions. "I was in charge of marking the course," he said, "And I took great care marking all the turns and mile markers." Lots of laughs came from the crowd, which I didn't understand. Then he said, "Just kidding. There are no mile markers, there are no turns. There's just one, long road with a finish line at the end." Then he said, "If you want to stop and take some pictures along the way, go ahead and pause your stopwatch. When you get to the finish line, we'll adjust your time for you." I could tell this was going to be a low-key event.

All the racers (field limit of 250) boarded schoolbuses; the drivers proceeded to take us to the exact center of the middle of nowhere. They parked on a dirt road, which looked like it rose at a very slight incline 'til it stopped at the foothills, very far away. Nothing but flat and sagebrush in every direction. I had heard this was supposed to be a beautiful marathon; what a crock.

 

Running on a Treadmill

There was no starting gun; instead, we were told that the race would start when the brake lights on the jeep 20 yards ahead of us went off. OK, gotta love the pared-down nature of this race. The lights went off and we all took off up the road.

The strange thing about running on a perfectly straight, very-slightly uphill road, is that it seems like you're not going anywhere, and certainly nowhere very fast. In particular, though, I was not fast. Within the first couple of miles, I was sorted to the back third of the field. I didn't care though (so I say); I was just there to see if I could cross the finish line on my feet.

After what I'm going to guess was about 8 miles the perfectly straight road reached the foothills and started twisting upward. That's when I started being grateful for my big ol' mountain biker legs. I've got horrible running top speed, but tons of torque. Up I went, passing dozens of people. OK, maybe just one dozen. After about 2 miles and I'd guess around 1000 feet of climbing, I caught up with John -- we had made it to the 10 mile aid station.

 

Down We Go

Now for a big batch of downhill — or, what I would have considered a big batch of downhill up until Saturday (you'll see what I mean in a minute). In a mile or so we descended 500 feet. My feet were bunching up in the front of my shoes, but it still felt good to "coast" a little bit. I was worried, though, by what I could see in front of me: a very steep road, zigzagging up the mountain not far away. I figured that couldn't be part of the run. Too steep.

It was part of the run.

John and I were pacing each other well now, and I proposed a "run 2 minutes, walk 1 minute" approach to this mountain pass. John ratified the proposal and up we went. The strategy worked; it's easier to deal with pain when you know it's going to end in an exact amount of time. We passed a bunch of people who were evidently demoralized into walking the whole pass, and reached the 12 mile mark. I think we climbed almost 1000 feet in 1 mile. John sang the blues (literally).

Now, though, we had nothing but downhill in front of us. 14 miles of downhill, descending 5000 vertical feet. The first 2 miles of it were crazy-steep; you had to shuffle-step in some places to keep from losing control. Now, though, I had a better idea of why people said this was such a beautiful run. Having summitted, we were now treated to beautiful canyons, stark, gorgeous mountains, and giant vistas at unfathomable distances. John and I stopped a couple of times to take a few pictures.

Mostly, to tell the truth, I kept my head down, picking out a good line to run. The road was mostly very good semi-packed dirt, but there were spots where you had to run through deep gravel for 20 feet or so. That slows you down. I stopped to empty my shoes no fewer than 5 times during this race.

By the time we reached the 15 mile aid station, I had hit my endurance groove. Before the race, I expected to have sore knees, ankles and insteps by this point, since I usually have all three of these by the end of much shorter runs. I was surprised to find, then, that I had no aches. I felt good and strong. Running on dirt is much kinder to your joints than running on pavement.

Between mile 15 and 20, John and I hooked up with a 60-year old guy from Santa Cruz; he says he does 4 marathons per year. I don't doubt it. John and I would pass him from time to time, but he always reeled us back in. At the 20 mile aid station, when John and I stopped to get a drink and some Advil, he continued on. I figured that was the last we'd see of him.

 

Home Stretch

Most of mile 20 - 23 is through a winding, narrow (maybe thirty feet wide?), but incredibly high canyon. I'd get vertigo craning my neck up, looking at the top. Or maybe it wasn't vertigo. Maybe I was looped from having run further than I ever had before. Whatever.

We got to the final aid station (mile 23), then, almost immediately, could see the finish line. We were back in the flats, where it was hard to gauge distance. John started picking up the pace. I matched. He kept pushing, I kept matching as best as I could. We were now going at a 7 1/2 minute/mile pace.

Finally, I didn't think I could match anymore and said, "John, go ahead, I'll see you in a few."

John replied, "No, we're finishing together." Then he started singing "Give Me Three Steps." We kept going. John pointed out that it would be nice if we could catch the 60-year-old before we finished. We did, about 50 feet before the finish. Then the 60-year-old showed us who was boss by breaking into a sprint, beating us at the finish line. It's tempting to say "I hope I'm in that kind of shape when I'm 60," but the truth is I'd be happy to be in that kind of shape right now.

My stopwatch — which I forgot to pause, much to my dismay — shows that we finished in 4:39. I'm happy with that.

48 hours later, I was the sorest as I've ever been — especially my quads, which have never taken a 14 mile downhill beating like that. Stairs were not easy to climb now, and were impossible to descend.

I am a clumsy oaf who can only barely manage to make a bike do the most mundane things: go straight, turn, go faster, go slower, stop. I was reminded of this recently (um, today) when I sat up to ride no-handed on my fixed gear bike, and immediately started veering hard to the right. I just — but only just — managed to put my hands down in time and avoid dropping into a ravine.

Really, this was lucky. It served as a reminder: I am not the guy who can do tricks on a bike. I am not the guy who can pull pranks. I am not the guy who impresses the neighbor kids by riding a wheelie down the street or sitting backward on the handlebars and riding the bike facing the wrong direction.

Because when I show off on a bike, bad things happen.

 

The Surge

The most powerful example of my oafishness happened three years ago, the day before the Leadville 100. Kenny, Mark, Serena, Bry and I were out on a short ride, just to keep loose. We were joking around, doing 5-second sprints, trying to ride our bikes up stairs, and just having a good time in general — enjoying the nervous energy that comes before a big ride.

Caught up in the moment, I forgot that I am incapable of doing anything clever on a bike, and decided to try a prank that Kenny had played on me once: pass someone on the left, and as you go by, grab their bike lever to slow them down. Finish off by pushing off on your victim's handlebar to give you an additional surge of speed.

When Kenny had done it to me, it had worked beautifully. He brought me to a near standstill, and shot on ahead of me 30 feet or more before I was able to get back up to speed.

So, thinking how funny I would be, I passed Bry on his left, grabbed his brake lever, and pushed off, yelling "Surge!"

To say it didn't go off very well would be an understatement. A vast understatement.

I had grabbed Bry's brake too hard; I didn't just slow him down, I put him into a nose-wheelie. And my push-off was way too enthusiastic. It didn't so much as push me forward as crank Bry's handlebar hard to the left.

The result was as predictable as it was embarrassing: Bry's handlebar hooked up nicely with my seatpost. Everyone gasped as Bry tumbled down to the left, landing squarely on top of me. I landed half on the pavement, half splayed on my bike.

It took half an hour and a borrowed pair of the Jaws of Life to untangle us.

Later, the scrapes and bruises from the fall would hurt like crazy. At the moment, though, the only thing I could feel was intense humiliation. I had just caused a good friend of mine to wreck the day before a race he had been training for for an entire year. Probably ruined his bike, too.

 

Whew

As it turned out, Bry hadn't been hurt much at all. He had landed on something soft: me. His bike had some scratches, but nothing severe. I'm lucky; Bry's an easy-going guy and he didn't get anywhere near as mad at me as he should have.

However, every time we ride together now, Bry shies away from me if I get too close. "Please, Fatty" he begs, "Don't try The Surge."

Don't worry, Bry. I won't try that kind of thing ever again, or at least not until the next time I forget that I'm a spaz.

 

Today's weight: 161.0

 

Bonus Search Engine Wonderfulness: If you do a search on "Assos" in MSN Search, guess what the 4th-highest result is?

Last Saturday, when I did the Issaquah Alps, it didn't occur to me that the hardest climb of the day would come after the event was over. I had used all my food and all my energy in finishing the ride itself, and hadn't left anything in reserve for the eight-mile ride home.

The extent of my mistake, of course, didn't occur to me until I reached the base of SE 43^rd Way. This is a fairly moderate climb, one that I do without any difficulty a couple times per week as part of my commute.

As I started to climb, though, I realized: I was cooked. My clock was cleaned. I was out of gas. I had cracked.

I had, in short, bonked.

Now, I don't know if anyone who doesn't do endurance sports really knows what a true bonk feels like. It's actually kind of interesting. First of all, you have only the slightest amount of power. You can turn the cranks over, but just barely. Next, you stop caring. You know that you must look ridiculous, riding your bike at three miles per hour (yes, really), but you just don't have the energy to care about appearances. You completely lack the ability to rally — it doesn't matter how bracing a pep talk your friends give you, you aren't going to be able to buck up and go faster. In a really good bonk, I've experienced a disconnectedness between my mind and body: this can't be my body inching along, right? Surely, if this were my body, I'd be able to tell my legs to go faster. Sometimes — not always — I'll feel cold.

All of these sensations, though, are pretty much secondary to the main emotion: misery. It's a self-pitying, helpless, weak, beyond-tiredness, beyond-hunger, beyond-thirsty, miserable misery.

And the thing is, as far as bonks go, the one I had last Saturday was pretty minor. I had, after all, a mobile phone; I could quit any moment and call for help. And I knew I wasn't far from home; Once I got to the top of the hill, I knew I'd be fine.

A bonk underscored by lack of options, though, is something special. It's something to behold if you're with the guy who's bonking, and something you never forget if you're the guy who bonked.

Here are a few of my favorite — if you can call them that — bonks.

 

Rocky at the Kokopelli

The first time Rocky and I tried the Kokopelli Trail, I believe it was the longest ride either of us had ever attempted. Also, neither of us had ever been on that trail and were just following the map and signposts.

We were, in short, all kinds of stupid.

Early in the day we missed a turn — the only non-obvious turn in the whole route, really — and didn't realize our mistake until it made more sense to continue than to turn around. This added several miles of deep sand to our ride, as well as a few miles of paved climbing.

And it was hot outside. Right around 100 degrees.

And Rocky's a sweater (by which I mean he sweats a lot, not that he's a woolen pullover you wear when it's nippy outside). It's his most obvious trait, really. By the time we got to within ten miles of where we'd be getting supplies, Rocky had gone through all his food, all his water, and some of my water.

Rocky bonked. Hard. He got clammy, his voice slurred, he could no longer ride his bike. Luckily, we spied a ranch and made our way toward it, taking little baby steps because that was truly all Rocky had in him.

Once at the ranch, Rocky drank all the water he could and we left. We passed an irrigation ditch; Rocky stripped and layed down in it about ten minutes.

Yeah, it sounds like heat exhaustion, but it was a heat-exhaustion-induced bonk.

 

Brad at the Kokopelli

Brad does not look like someone who would bonk. Ever. This is because Brad is, to all appearances, the perfect specimen of a man. He bikes, he runs, he does Muay Thai, he eats very much fish.

And yet, a couple of years ago, Brad bonked hard.

A good-sized group of us were doing the Kokopelli Trail — many years had elapsed, and I now had considerable endurance riding experience — and Brad was, as usual, riding off the front. Or at least he was riding up in front until over the course of just a few minutes, he imploded and became a husk of a man. I don't know why it happened, I don't think he knows why. But Brad was fully bonked. Everyone in the group slowed way down — you don't want to leave a bonked rider out in the desert on his own — but Brad still kept dropping behind. He hung his head, he wouldn't talk, a lot of the time he didn't even seem to hear us.

The thing is, Brad didn't have an option about whether to keep going. We were out in the middle of nowhere, and he had to somehow turn the cranks for 30 miles before we next met up with the sag wagon. I'm pretty sure Brad started crying when he finally saw the car and knew he could quit.

Why did Brad bonk? It's hard to say. Maybe it's because he didn't have an ounce of fat on his body, so had no reserves. Maybe it's because he had been training more for shorter races, and the long ride went beyond what he was ready for. Maybe he was just too darn handsome to be riding with the rest of us.

 

Fatty at Leadville

Three years ago, I was about as fit as I've ever been. I was fit, light, and had been training like crazy. I thought I had a good chance at finishing under nine hours in the Leadville 100. And for the first 65 miles, my split times seemed to show that I was going to do it.

But then, two-thirds of the way through the race, I just couldn't drink Gatorade anymore. The taste of it sickened me. And that's too bad, because Gatorade was all I had to drink.

Before long, I would gag whenever I tried to take a drink. And then, right around mile 78, I lost all power. I rode slowly, frustrated that people were passing me so fast, yet completely unable to do anything about it. I pulled over to the side of the road and vomited. I felt better and was able to ride again — for about two minutes. Then I was weaker than ever. Worse, the final 25 miles of the Leadville 100 have two big climbs.

I had plenty of food, plenty to drink, but every time I tried to eat or drink, the gag reflex kicked in. My world became very small: just me, the bike, and the next turn of the crank (or the next step, since there were big stretches I could not ride).

Eventually, it occurred to me that if I took small sips, maybe I could get something down. It worked. Eventually, I could ride again, and even finished with a respectable time — although not the sub-9 I was hoping for.

The thought of Gatorade still creeps me out, though. I don't think I'll ever be able to drink it again.

 

Bonk Recovery

If there's a silver lining to the bonk, it's the feeling of recovering from a bonk. Eating everything in sight, as if it were a contest, as if you have a capacity for an infinite amount of food, as if every kind of food really does go with every other kind of food (ketchup and whipped cream on rye? Excellent!)

And then laying down, knowing that you really are as tired as you can possibly be. And that you survived a bonk.

 

Today's weight: 162.4

 

Bonus Search Engine Wonderfulness: I am happy to report that if you do a Google or MSN search on "best cake in the world" the top result is right here. So, I guess that settles it: it really is the best cake in the world.

 

 

The Unnecessarily Long Prologue
I'm an evil, scheming type. Conniving. Strategizing. For any given event of which I am party, you can bet that I'm looking for a way to turn it to my benefit. So last Saturday, after my wife had spent the entire day away shopping, seeing a movie she knew I wanted to see, eating out and what-not, all while I took care of the kids, you can bet that I noticed her appreciative-yet-slightly-guilty tone. I was prepared to take advantage of the situation.

"Hey, any chance I could get in a fairly good-sized ride Monday?"

"Sure, honey. What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, I dunno. Let me think about it." Actually, I knew exactly, but part of my scheme was that I didn't want to come off as scheming.

The next morning, after letting my wife sleep in, I told her what I wanted to do: "You know, Hon, there's a road ride some of us have been talking about for a long time, but none of us have ever done it. I think it would take about five hours. Any chance I could get away for that long tomorrow? I'd leave around 6:30 a.m., so I'd be back before or right around noon—we'd still have most of the day to do stuff as a family."

Instant approval. Nearly twelve years of marriage has taught me a thing or two.

So Sunday night I laid out all my stuff: food, two bottles of diluted Red Bull, shorts, mesh jersey. I set the alarm clock for 6:00 and went to bed.

Monday morning dawned cold, dark and wet. No, seriously, it really did. When the alarm went off, I looked out the window and saw nothing but clouds and wet roads. There goes my ride. I went back to bed.

A couple hours later, I was sulkily playing Crash Bandicoot with the kids when my wife looked out the window and said, "It looks like things might clear up; do you want to try your ride after all? If the weather turns on you, you can bail out and come back home." Yes, that's right: my wife was encouraging me to take off for most of the day. I dug out knickers, a warm jersey and arm warmers and was out the door.

The Ride
The reason I wrote such an unnecessarily long prologue is because I don't think epic road rides are as inherently dramatic as equivalent mountain bike rides. You're on the road, for crying out loud. So, in order to make the story longer (the Epic Rides site pays by the word, after all) [editor's note: I originally wrote this story for a site I used to maintain called "Epic Rides," which of course did not pay anything at all], I padded. I still am padding, I guess.

Anyway, the ride I had in my head is based on a beautiful road in Utah County: the Alpine Loop. By itself, this loop curves through aspen and pine trees on Timpanogos mountain, consists of about 38 miles and 3000 feet of climbing. The pavement is good and the scenery is spectacular. What I wanted to do was ride this loop and all the "spur" roads on it. I figured this would about double the length—both in distance and climbing—of the ride. So here's how it went.

Note: the "Altitude Gain" numbers below reflect the amount of climbing I had done to that point, not the actual elevation of that climb. The elevation of this ride ranges from 4800 feet to 8000 feet.

Spur 1: Squaw Peak
Ordinarily, this is a tough little 4.3-mile climb of its own; while climbing it all I can think about is getting to the top—especially the last third of a mile, which is truly brutal. Today, though, I was taking it nice and slow—I didn't want to fry myself early on, knowing that I had a lot more climbing to do after this.

Coming down Squaw Peak was miserable—I had a fierce, cold crosswind that made this normally fast, fun descent feel trecherous as I got pushed around on my bike. Sometime during this descent my toes went numb from the cold (hadn't thought to substitute warm socks); I wouldn't feel them again for twenty miles.

The numbers for the Squaw Peak Climb:
Distance: 4.78 - 9.11 miles (4.33 miles)
Altitude Gain: 210 - 1890 feet (1680 feet)
Climb Time: 0:17 - 0:58 (41 minutes)

Spur 2: South Fork
The rotten crosswind I had coming down Squaw Peak became my friend as I rode up Provo Canyon to South Fork. The tailwind pushed me fast, making it easy to go upwards of 20 miles an hour. Uphill. Now, South Fork is the road ride a lot of us do when we're not in the mood to do a hard ride. I made a point of riding spinning nice and easy on this relatively easy climb; I wanted to be strong for the nine-mile Alpine Loop climb, which would be next.

About the time I got to the turnaround and headed down, I got a good omen: the sun came out and the wind calmed down. I was still cold, but at least I wasn't freezing anymore.

The numbers for the South Fork Climb:

Distance: 17.5 - 21.7 miles (4.2 miles)
Altitude Gain: 2230 - 2950 feet (720 feet)
Climb Time: 1:15 - 1:36 (21 minutes)

The Alpine Loop Climb
If the Alpine Loop weren't so beautiful, this would still be a great ride. The fact that it's situated in one of the most gorgeous mountain passes I've ever seen makes it a favorite recreational ride for cars, motorcycles and bicyclists; the narrow road can get pretty crowded. Luckily, the overcast day seemed to discourage most people; I didn't have to contend with traffic much at all.

I should also mention that the Alpine Loop is a pretty strenuous climb, especially the first 2.3 miles that bring you to the Sundance ski resort. I stopped there for water (and to give the blood a chance to stop spurting out of my ears) and churned up the rest of the way to within a quarter-mile of the summit — the Cascade Springs turnoff. I was starting to tire, and was worried that I just didn't have the strength to pull off that section of the ride.

The numbers for the Alpine Loop Climb:
Distance: 27.2 - 35.6 miles (8.4 miles)
Altitude Gain: 3000 - 5720 feet (2720 feet)
Climb Time: 1:53 - 3:00 (1:07)

The Cascade Springs Spur
I was now at the point I had been thinking about the whole ride. This was the only spur I had never ridden. It's also the only spur that starts by going downhill, meaning — of course — that the return trip is uphill. A couple of friends of mine—Dug and Brad—who had ridden it had told me that this return trip was a seven mile brute of a climb that dwarfs the difficulty of the Alpine Loop climb. And there's no easy bailout; once you get to Cascade Springs (at least on a road bike), the only way out is back up. "I'll recuperate on the way down," I thought.

I had no idea that the first three miles down Cascade Springs could go so fast. Between the steepness of the road and a stiff tailwind, I hit my max speed for the day here — 54mph — without even trying (in fact, I was a little spooked). Then, to my surprise, I found there's about a mile of climbing. Dug and Brad had told me about this, but I had forgotten. Another quick three miles of mostly downhill brought me to Cascade Springs. I filled up my water bottles here and talked with the chain-smoking, hugely overweight ranger, who assured me that with all the walking he has to do in the parking lot each day, checking windshields to make sure people have paid their fees, he gets as much of a workout as I would riding my bike back to the top. "I'm sure you do," I agreed, finishing off the last of my Red Bull and squirting down two PowerGels.

Time for the big climb. As Doug and Brad had predicted, it was a brute; in particular the final three miles hurt. Remember that tailwind that helped me downhill so effectively? Well, strangely enough it had turned into a headwind on the return trip. I put down my head and did my best to suffer with poise. When I got to the top, though, I still felt good — I had blown the difficulty of the climb out of proportion. Plus, I knew that the rest of the ride would be easy. Jubilant (yeah, I was jubilant, and what of it?) but light-headed, I sat down at the Alpine Loop summit parking lot and ate my sandwich.

The numbers for the Cascade Springs Climb (to Alpine Loop Summit):
Distance: 42.7 - 49.97 miles (7.22 miles)
Altitude Gain: 6090 - 8180 feet (2090 feet)
Climb Time: 3:30 - 4:19 (49 minutes)

Granite Flats Campground Spur
Dropping down the American Fork side of the Alpine Loop is usually a hoot. It's got fun curves and switchbacks, with a couple of straight sections where you can really open it up. On this descent, though, the crosswind/headwind was strong enough to scare me to death — you're riding on exposed road; a big screwup could kill you. So I was relieved when I got to American Fork canyon and could begin riding the final spur up to Tibble Fork reservoir — home of the best singletrack in the entire world. It's a quick, flat little spur, and when I got to the parking lot and noticed that the road continues after it, I decided it would be cheating not to take the spur to the end. Soon I realized what a lousy decision that was. The road turned uphill and I realized I was completely beat. Having made the choice, though, I didn't want to back out and slowly, slowly made it to Granite Flat Campground. Now all I needed to do was make it back home.

The numbers for the Granite Flat Campground Climb:
Distance: 55.8 - 59.09 miles (3.29 miles)
Altitude Gain: 8200 - 8840 feet (640 feet)
Climb Time: 4:45 - 5:04 (19 minutes)

Wrapping Up
The sixteen or so miles to my house are mostly downhill or flat; I started feeling considerably better before long. In fact, I started hatching a new plan: when I got home, I'd beg my wife for another hour or so, ride out to South Fork and back and make this a road century with 10,000 feet of climbing. That was before the four-block climb that leads to my house. By the time I got to the top of that, I had no inclination to do any more riding that day. I coasted the final two downhill blocks to my house, wrote down my final stats and steeled myself for what I knew would be the hardest challenge of the day: acting like I was fine and ready to go on a picnic, or to the park, or wherever else my wife wanted to go for the rest of the day, when in reality all I wanted to do was lay very, very still.

Final Numbers for the Alpine Gauntlet:
Ride Time: 5:14
Total Time: 5:57
Avg. Speed: 14.6mph
Max. Speed: 54mph
Distance: 76.78 miles
Altitude Gain: 9350 feet

Nobody reads The Fat Cyclist for useful advice. Or at least, I hope not, because I never give useful advice. Unless you count a detailed recounting of "how to eat like a sideshow freak" or "how to fall off your bike and hurt yourself, while still looking comically ridiculous" as useful advice.

No, I think it's safe to say that I'm long on absurd overdisclosure and wild exaggeration, and short on practical information.

And yet, last night I started thinking (hey, your brain's got to do something while you brush your teeth): I've been riding for ten years or so, now. Certainly in that time I must have learned something of real value I could share. And in the space of three minutes (ie, the period of time required for  a good teeth-brushing), I had thought of three simple, useful pieces of advice that have significantly improved my riding experience over the years.

So yes, one day after I reveal that I can behave like a complete lunatic, I'm asking you to consider taking my advice. Here you go:

 

1. How to Breathe

When I first started mountain biking, I got cramps in my side every single ride. Cramps so painful I would get off my bike and wait for the pain to go away. While I was thus waiting once, Stuart rolled up to me and asked what the problem was. I told him about the stitch in my side, and Stuart said four words:

"Breathe deeply. Exhale fully."

I got back on my bike and tried it. I inhaled to capacity, and exhaled as far as I could. He was right. I had been breathing too quickly and shallowly. With that, I went from being the guy who was always having to stop and rest to being the guy who could turn the cranks forever. If I wanted more power or speed, I would do the same thing, but faster.

Those four words of advice very nearly make up for the fact that it was Stuart who basically caused me to get a concussion on my first mountain bike ride ever.

 

2. There is No Such Thing as Bike Burnout

Toward the end of just about every riding season, I'll try to set up a ride with friends, but will get a variation of this response: "No, I'm sick of bikes." Or sometimes, I'll be the guy who says, "No, I’m burned out on riding."

This is just stupid.

Here's what's really happening if you don't want to get out on your bike: you're in a rut. You've been riding the same kind of bike, in the same way (or same set of ways), on the same terrain too much. It's become routine.

Any time I've kicked myself off the couch and tried a different kind of ride, I've been astounded. If I've been riding road exclusively, I'll say, "I'd forgotten that mountain biking can be so intense and beautiful and demanding." If I've been mountain biking a lot, I'll say, "I'd forgotten that road riding is so fast and quiet and smooth." Or, in my case right now as I learn to ride in the velodrome, "I had forgotten what it feels like to be an absolute beginner." Or when I ride my fixie to work and back, "I had forgotten what it felt like to be completely demolished by a climb."

If you're not having fun riding anymore, mix it up (even if it does go against the routine Chris Carmichael personally wrote for you). You'll find you still like riding as much as you ever did.

 

3. Remember to Have Fun

I have been on lots and lots and lots of endurance races and rides. I have never quit, even when I've been really slow and fat. This is because of my very most clever trick:

I have fun.

I think lots of cyclists look forward to a long ride or race forever, but then once they're on the course think of nothing but the finish line. I propose that if you remember to actually ride in the moment, look around and consider what a cool thing it is to be on a bicycle, that — whether you're doing an afternoon-length ride or a 24-hour race — you'll have a better time and won't get tired as quickly.

OK, I just made up the part about not getting tired as quickly. But if you resist the urge to think about the end of the ride, I guarantee you'll enjoy more of the ride itself.

 

Today's weight: 160.8. I did this by basically not eating anything yesterday, and then not fasting after 5pm yesterday. So, yeah, I made my weight goal. But I'm sure my weight's going to be higher tomorrow, and I'll have a lot of work to make my weight goal next week.

 

Bonus blood pressure / cholesterol info: I — as usual — blew things out of proportion. My blood pressure yesterday was only trivially higher than it should be, and my cholesterol levels aren't dangerous. Basically, I need to cut back on the salt and eat more fish (or take flaxseed oil supplements), and I'm good.

 

Bonus weekend event: I'm doing the Seattle Randonneur's 100km Populaire (110 km, 1650 m/5400 ft of elevation gain) tomorrow. Unless I chicken out.

After yesterday's news that I have high blood pressure (130/90) and high cholesterol (221), I realized that my life is about to change. I realized that after my doctor's appointment today, I will probably need to make additional changes to my diet. I realized, above all, that I'm probably going to have to say goodbye to salt and mayonnaise: my two favorite things to add to food.

At first, this made me sad. No salt? What good are tortilla chips without salt? What is Cholula but some hot peppers in a bath of vinegar and salt? No mayo? What good is a peanut butter, banana, and mayo sandwich without mayo?

Then I got mad.

Real mad.

The problem was, I didn't have anyone to get angry at. The only thing that could be said to be at fault was my own body and the way it processes food.

Fair enough, then. I'll get angry at my body, and punish it with food.

I resolved to spend the day eating with a vengeance.

 

Round One: Lunch

The only reasonably-short line in the cafeteria was the salad bar, which wasn't exactly what I originally had in mind to kick off my act of gastronomical defiance. However, I decided to take it on as a challenge. I would build a Bad Salad.

This turned out to be almost disappointingly easy. On top of a very small bed of lettuce (put there mostly so that I could still claim it is a salad, as opposed to an ad-hoc casserole), I put a couple of hardboiled eggs, two different kinds of cheese, several cherry tomatoes (just for color), some cottage cheese just in case the other cheeses got lonely, croutons, a double-fistful of sunflower seeds, and then drenched it in ranch dressing.

Where I work, the way they charge you for the salad bar is by how much it weighs. For me, they had to bring in a special scale.

 

Round Two: Afternoon Snack

Within a few hours, I no longer felt like I was going to explode. This is not, mind you, the same thing as saying that I felt hungry. I was not in the same area code as hungry. But I was still feeling angry, so decided to continue to show my body who's boss. Luckily, there's a vending machine on my floor. "Take that, stupid heart!" I said, plowing through a Snickers. "Who's got high cholesterol now?" I asked my blood, as I easily dispatched a KitKat bar. "What, you think I eat too much salt?" I taunted my blood pressure, as I munched with affected carelessness on a Salted Nut Roll.

And then I ate the rigatoni with chicken and alfredo sauce I had in the fridge. I had planned on eating that for lunch today, but I didn't feel like I had sufficiently made my point.

 

Round Three: Dinner

My good friend Jeff was in town yesterday, so we went on a short ride — just to get our appetites worked up — and then he took me to dinner. Since he's a Very Important Vice President of a Massive Publishing Conglomerate, he of course volunteered to pick up the tab when we went to the Acupulco Fresh taco shop.

Taking advantage of Jeff's (employer's) generosity, I ordered the Burrito Grande Al Pastor, with the red sauce enchilada dip. And an order of chips and guacamole. Don't skip on the sour cream if you want a tip, OK? And hey, lookit all the tasty different kinds of salsa at the salsa bar. I think I'll have some of each.

I dispatched the burrito quickly and efficiently — some might even say "savagely."

Jeff watched in horror.

 

Round Four: Late Night Snack

Apart from a lot of bike riding, I would say that the factor most responsible for my weight loss since I started this blog is a simple rule I set for myself: After dinner, I'm done eating for the day.

I broke that rule in every way possible last night. Golden Grahams were just the beginning of it. "Stupid body," I thought to myself (I might've been speaking out loud, it's hard to say). "I diet and exercise and eat crazy amounts of vegetables and fruit and high-fiber cereal, and you're still going to go all middle-aged on me? Well, then, I may as well eat Golden Grahams. And hey, there in the pantry: I spy with my little eye a box of Oreos. I bet I'll have no trouble finishing those off. I wonder how Oreos would taste with peanut butter on them? Wow. Really good. Let's do that again."

Was I done? No, I was not done. I was still angry. And the next expression of my indignation would take the form of a tortilla, heated for ten seconds in the microwave to get it nice and pliable, upon which I would spread peanut butter and chocolate frosting.

OK, arteries. Are you ready to cry 'uncle' yet?

 

Do I Have a Point?

Apart from the therapeutic effect of confessing my sins, does this little horror story have a point? Nope. I was just mad at my body for betraying me, and so punished it by eating like there's no tomorrow. And I admit, I had a lot of fun completely ignoring — in fact, running contrary to — all my eating rules for a day.

And if my doctor's appointment this afternoon goes like I expect it to, that was my last food frenzy for quite some time.

 

Today's weight: Do you really think I would weigh myself the morning after eating like that?

 

PS: The Errorista — my sister — and a.Toad — my "Hot Blog Pick for Q3'05" (see my "Blogging Cyclists" list) — are both featured on MSN's What's Your Story site this week, which is not a small deal. Congrats to both of them.