Dear Triathletes,

First off, I want you to know that I admire you. I really do. I admire your tenacity and determination. I admire your intensity. I admire your endurance.

And it’s a darn shame you waste all those admirable qualities on the most ridiculous activity (yes, “activity,” not “sport”—I’ll get to that in a moment) that has ever been created.

I will explain.

Swimming is Mind-Blowingly Awful

Consider some of the things that make biking wonderful: You get to see beautiful terrain. You’re going somewhere. You can use it both for entertainment and as a practical means of conveyance. You can talk with your friends while you’re doing it. The variety of the terrain means that you get interesting new challenges on a moment-by-moment basis. And perhaps most importantly, you are unlikely to drown or be eaten by a giant fish (see Jonah 1:17).

None of these desirable attributes can be said of swimming.

Here, on the other hand, is what can be said of swimming:

• It is insular: When you’re swimming, you are isolated from everything. You don’t get to look at anything, except where you’re going (and that’s only kinda-sorta). You don’t get to talk with anyone, should the mood strike you. You do get to listen to the environment—I’ll give you that—but the environment is always making exactly one sound: “splash.” That loses its charm after a bit. Triathletes, consider: people are currently facing court martial for using many of these same tactics to extract information from prisoners in Guantanamo.
• It is crowded: While swimming doesn’t allow you any normal human interaction with your competitors, it does allow uncomfortable, abnormal interaction. Specifically, while you’re swimming in a race (especially open water courses), you’re constantly being kicked and elbowed.
• It is gross: Triathletes, I’m sure you never pee in the pool. And your nose never starts running while you’re swimming. And you never need to clear your nostrils. And you never get a mouthful of water, then spit it back out. And of course you’re not sweating while you swim. Right? Right? Oh. Well, in that case, I’m sorry, but a swimming pool is absolutely the most grossifying place on planet Earth. I just had an involuntary shudder thinking about that stew of fluids you’re swimming back and forth in. Ew.
• It is mind-bogglingly boring: You swim and swim, exerting incredible effort with your entire body to go approximately the speed a child can easily skip. You don’t get to see anything. You don’t get to hear anything. You don’t get to feel anything, except water (and elbows and feet as you’re kicked and knocked about). This is actually the same point I made at the beginning of this bullet list, but I feel strongly enough about it to make it twice.
• I am no good at it: Okay, this may be more my problem than a problem with the sport itself.
• It is dangerous: There are giant fish out there. And they’re hungry. Do I have to remind you of the story of Jonah? Or Pinnochio?

Running is Pure Misery

Giant fish notwithstanding, swimming at least is good for you. It works your whole body out without busting you up. Running, on the other hand, is just plain evil. I’ve covered the problems of running before, though, so won’t go into it here. Trust me, though: Running is bad.

Triathlon is Not a Sport Because it Does Not Fit Into the Way I Choose to Define “Sport”

As far as I’m concerned, a sport is a physical activity you can do for fun or competition. By my (very authoritative and comprehensive) definition, a sport is not legitimate unless you’d go out and do it just for kicks, even if there weren’t a competition coming up. So biking’s a sport. Running’s a sport. Even swimming’s a sport. But doing all three in succession? No, that’s not a sport. That’s a stunt, or self-imposed punishment, or a statement. It’s not a sport.

You do all three events in a row only during a competition, or to prepare for a competition. And while you may be having fun during some of those events, you are not having fun because you are doing all three of the events in a row.

So cut it out.

Triathlon is Arbitrary, and Not Even Imaginatively Arbitrary

Let’s imagine for a moment that none of the points I have made so far stand up. I know, I know: my arguments are so compelling they brook no dissent, but still, for the sake of argument, pretend.

Here’s my final point: Triathlon is silly because it takes three random events, pins them together, and calls them a different event.

Why three events? Why not five? Or eleven? And why always the same three events, always in the same order?

If you absolutely must cram multiple events together, why not get creative about it, from time to time? Here are some suggestions:

• Bike, football, poker
• Bike, horseshoes, log-rolling
• Bike, snowshoe, line-dancing
• Road bike, mountain bike, velodrome, cyclocross (as I type this, I suddenly realize this would actually be a really interesting event)
• Bike, nail-driving, yodeling

I could go on.

A Heartfelt Plea

Triathletes, please. Stop it. The rest of the cycling world would happily welcome you into our arms if you’ll only join us. We’ll teach you how to draft. We’ll teach you how to pedal circles. We’ll teach you how to ride a bike that’s both comfortable and efficient.

Just admit you have a problem. We’ll do the rest.

Sincerely,

The Fat Cyclist

Every week, I check the “What’s Your Story” site to see what lucky MSN Space-ers are being featured. Imagine my surprise and delight to find that I’m one of those lucky featured Spaceheads.

Things have changed since I last got featured, though: Now they have voting. It’s a popularity contest.

Currently, I am dead last.

This should not bother me, because as far as I know, at the end of the week, the winner gets a grand prize of absolutely nothing. But you know, it does bother me. It bothers me a lot. It’s like a group sprint to the next telephone pole. The guy who wins doesn’t get anything at all, except bragging rights.

Which begs the question: apart from a suitcase full of cash, is there any better prize in the world than bragging rights?

Vote For Me and Get Free Stuff

Realizing that I have no chance whatsoever of winning this contest on the strength of my writing, I will instead open a contest, wherein I will give away stuff to random people who comment during the week. Here’s how it works:

• If I lose: I will give away my copy of A Sunday in Hell, the documentary about Eddy Merckx racing Paris-Nice.
• If I get third place: I will give away the brand-new Microsoft® Wireless Laser™ Desktop 6000 wireless keyboard and mouse (retail value: $99) I purchased as a Christmas present for a family member, but then never got around to sending, as well as the Sunday in Hell video.
• If I get second place: I will give away a brand-new, never-used, retail copy of Microsoft Office Pro 2003 (retail value: $499) that I got as thank-you schwag for participating in a recent usability study. And the wireless keyboard/mouse. And the Sunday in Hell video.
• If I win: I will give away my one-of-a-kind prototype Banjo Brothers messenger bag, and the Office Pro box. And the wireless keyboard/mouse. And the Sunday in Hell video. I will also give away other valuable prizes which I have not listed here, but which I suspect you would like.

As you can see, I have cleverly managed to combine a contest with my need to reduce the volume of stuff I have to pack when I move in a couple months.

One little caveat: If you live somewhere where it would be expensive or problematic for me to ship (outside the US, basically), if you win you've got to cover the shipping costs if you want me to ship to you. I don't mind spending a little money on shipping, but I'm not willing to take out a personal loan to do it.

Just to be Clear, How Do I Win?

You win by going to http://whatsyourstory.msn.com/, voting for me, then leaving a comment sometime this week. Or -- if you aren't able to leave a comment in my blog because you're not in the mood to register for a .NET Passport, just go vote anyway (you don't need to register for anything to do that) and send me a comment via email: fatty@fatcyclist.com. I'll post your comment for you. Then all you need to do to win is get randomly selected.

And I win by having my vanity served.

BONUS: MORE FREE STUFF FROM THE BANJO BROTHERS!

My friends at Banjo Brothers have (generously, and without me even having to beg) ponied up a dozen of their soon-to-be-famous Pocket Messenger Bags to people who vote for me. Check out their blog for details. Thanks, Banjo Brothers. You rule. Even more than you used to.

PS: Tomorrow: Why I will never ever ever do another triathlon, and why nobody else should, either.

Last weekend, my wife and I went house hunting. By the time we had looked at the tenth house, they all looked the same to me. I had stopped thinking about where I was, what the house looked like, whether it was a practical arrangement for our family, which kid would stay in what room, and had in general stopped doing anything but responding with affirmations of whatever my wife said. It turns out that you can pretend to be engaged in whatever someone else is doing simply by saying, whenever it’s clear that it’s your turn to talk, one of the following:

• “Totally.”
• “That’s exactly right.”
• “Hmm. That’s a good question. What do you think?” (This is a good one when it’s clear you’ve been asked for your opinion on something but you really don’t have any idea what’s going on.)

While we wandered, a number of thoughts went through my mind. They include the following:

• If you’ve got a massive dog with a massive incontinence problem, you shouldn’t even try to sell your house until you’ve replaced all the carpet in the house. All the Sharper Image De-Ionizing De-Stinkifiers in the world aren’t going to be sufficient, the open windows just acknowledge the stench without making me think there’s any hope for eliminating it (“Honey, let’s buy this house! And when we do, let’s always leave all the windows open!”), and the cinnamon-scented candles just make the place smell like cinnamony dog pee.
• If you want to sell your home, go away while I wander around in your house. If you’re watching over my shoulder, I don’t feel like I can be nosy. And if I don’t feel like I can be nosy, I’m just going to make polite noises and get out as fast as I can.
• My new bike commute is going to be epic. I’m going to be riding 50 miles and doing 4000 feet of climbing every single day, just by going to work and back. Too bad (for everyone else) my new job doesn’t have showers onsite.
• Money becomes meaningless when you talk about large enough quantities of it.

Wrapping My Head around Money

Here’s my theory: when you start talking about so much money that you can no longer imagine how big a pile of one-dollar-bills totaling that amount would be, the quantity starts being meaningless. How big would a pile of 100,000 one dollar bills be? Would it fill a 10-foot-square room up to my knees, hips, or chest? I don’t know.

And that’s why buying a house seems so strange. When I negotiate on price, I have no real idea whether the house is, objectively, a good value. All I know is I’m going to offer $15,000 less than the asking price, because I know everyone asks for more than they expect.

Is any house worth the amount of money I’m about to borrow for one? I don’t know. I can’t imagine the pile. But I do know that I’ve developed a nice little headache in the left half of my head while thinking about it.

And I’m hyperventilating, too.

I thought about bikes while house hunting, too. Specifically, I thought about how strange it was to be saying things like, “This house is only $5,000 more than the last house we looked at,” when I know for sure that there’s no way in the world anyone would say I just spent “only” $5000 on a bike, even though I’d enjoy a $5000 bike a lot more than whatever difference $5000 counts for between two houses.

With all that said, here’s the one we’re probably going to get:

Please note the best features of the house:

• three car garage
• custom-built epic commute

My wife, however, contends that the best thing about it is the beautiful granite countertops.

Totally.

PS: My son is very happy to announce that he has created a new minigame. Try it at: http://www.minigamemania.com/5.html.

I am, as I have mentioned a time or two, an increasingly famous blogger. To tell the truth (and I always tell, the truth, for I am famous in part because of my forthrightness), sometimes this fame can be wearying. For example, when people begin spreading insidious, often hurtful rumors about me, I sometimes ask myself, “Fat Cyclist (I always refer to myself as ‘Fat Cyclist,’ even in my most private thoughts), is it all worth it? Are the vast quantities of money, the public adoration, the high-profile speaking engagements, and free yogurt samples sent via FedEx really worth the contemptible falsehoods my jealous enemies propogate?”

“I don’t know, Fat Cyclist,” I answer to myself. “Sometimes, it does seem too heavy a burden to bear.”

“Pish-posh, Fat Cyclist!” my third self bracingly answers to my other two selves, in an English accent (for some unknown reason). “Do not let the naysayers, the snide liars, the riff-raff, nor, in short, anyone else who disagrees with you, bring you down!”

“Did you just use six commas in that sentence?” my first self asks my third self, astounded.

“Yes! And later I shall split an infinitive!” my third self answers. “But no matter! The point which I am so emphatically making is that you should not allow yourself to be defeated by these rumours! Rather, you should expose them for what they are—lies!—and refute them with vigor and vim! Pip pip!”

“Okay, but after that we’re going to find a good psychiatrist, OK, Fat Cyclist?” asks my reasonable second self.

Rumor 1: The Fat Cyclist is Actually Bob Roll

I acknowledge the eerie similarities between Bob Roll and myself: we either have been or are overweight. We both love cycling. We both occupy the very small “funny cycling guy” niche. We are both courted nonstop by cycling publications and television programming, due to our widespread name recognition and popular appeal. I offer, however, the following tautology which I believe proves conclusively that I am not Bob Roll:

1. Bob Roll has sat beside Al Trautwig.

2. Al Trautwig is still alive.

THEREFORE

I am not Bob Roll.

Rumor 2: The Fat Cyclist is Not Really All That Fat

Many people have tried to discredit me by asserting that I am not all that fat. To which I respond, “Am too.”

To which these petty obstructionists counter, “Are not.”

So let me make it perfectly clear, this one last time:

• I weigh more than I want to.
• I weigh more than I should if I am going to be a successful endurance racer.
• I really like calling myself “Fat Cyclist,” in part because it inoculates me against defeat. When people outride me, where’s the glory in being faster than a fat cyclist? But when I can outride someone—hey, it happens—it doubles my glory and their humiliation.

Rumor 3: The Fat Cyclist is Not Writing Very Often Right Now Because He Has Run Out of Things To Say

No, I’m just trying to close down my old job, sell my house, start a new job, buy a new house, and otherwise relocate. Hey, at least this time the wife doesn’t have cancer, and the twins are out of diapers. This is easy!

Rumor 4: The Fat Cyclist Blog is Now Outsourced to a Blog-Writing Vendor Based in India

That is laughable. I would never outsource my blog to India. Especially when I can get a much better deal at one of those blog sweatshops they’ve got set up in the Philippines.

Rumor 5: The Fat Cyclist Has Not Weighed Himself in More Than Three Weeks and Has Now Reached a Point Where He is Terrified of What He Might Find

OK, I admit I haven’t weighed myself in a while because the scale’s in a box in the garage somewhere, and I’m only occasionally getting out on a ride. But I don’t think I’m gaining any weight. On an unrelated note, though, I need to buy a new clothes drier. The current one seems to be running too hot and is shrinking all my clothes.

So, our house went on the market last Saturday, with a nice little open house at 1:00pm. I can’t tell you what it was like, because we got as far away from it as possible. Evidently, having the owners skulk around watching over everyone’s shoulders and looking for signs of interest isn’t the best way to make people feel comfortable.

Who knew?

Anyway, our clever strategy of having one of maybe three houses in this price range in this town with a lawn and lotsa trees seems to have paid off. We got a good offer before the end of the day and are now doing the dance of house selling. It’s a very complicated dance which I will not detail in this blog for two reasons:

• It’s very complicated.
• It’s very boring.

Let’s Go Shopping

So now we’re officially in the market to buy a house. My wife is being kind of silly about the things she wants. For example, she’d like to have a house that’s near good schools. She’d like to have a house that has enough bedrooms for all the children. She’d like to have a house that has room to store all the junk we’ve collected in nearly 19 years of marriage (just did the math; it wasn’t as easy as you might expect, because it required me remembering what year we got married). She’d like to have a house that’s reasonably close to things like grocery stores.

Pffff.

I, on the other hand, am much more pragmatic. Here is what I am looking for in our new house:

• Room for my stuff: I want a three car garage. I have this dream for the third car part: in the back is a workbench where I keep my tools. Then, in front of that, I have a bike rack—just like the kind you see in public places. That bike rack is full of my bikes. I don’t have to hang them up to get them out of the way of anything, because standing there right in the middle of the floor is right where they belong. Along the wall will be rows of shelves with room for all my helmets, camelbaks, tubes, lube, shoes, bike clothes, gel, and other stuff. This third car garage will be my favorite part of the house.
• Commute distance and topography: I’d like the house to be between 15 and 20 miles from my job. Ideally, my house will be at the top of a long hill—I’m thinking a multiple-mile climb here—so I can start the day with a nice downhill, and end the day with an intense climb. Yes, such places do in fact exist in the area I’m looking at.
• Location: I want my house to be close to—or better yet, on—one of my favorite mountain bike rides. It can be on Hog’s Hollow, or it can be on Grove, or it can be on Frank, or it can be on Hope. I admit to having a preference that it be on either Hog’s Hollow or Grove, since I’ve already lived near Frank once, and wouldn’t mind a change.
• Location: I want my house to be close to the Alpine Loop, so I can hop on my bike and do what I consider the greatest road ride in the world whenever I feel like it.
• Location: Actually, I don’t have anything to go in this third “location” bullet. But I created it anyway, in order to do the “location, location, location” joke. Wasn’t it funny?

This Friday, my wife and I are flying out to Utah to spend a weekend looking at houses. It’ll be fun to watch the real estate agent try to resolve my reasonable wants with my wife’s crazy-headed notions.

I, the Fat Cyclist, hereby forbid the entire cycling universe from uttering the following phrases.  

• “Nice weather for a ride” (uttered before a ride when the weather looks good): Look, you’re jinxing all of us by saying that. You’re inviting bad weather. Also, we’re all outside together, and we’ve all independently observed the niceness of the weather. It doesn’t need to be said. The fact that you’re saying “Nice weather” when the weather is obviously nice indicates that you’re the kind of person who can’t stand to not have someone talking. Or maybe you’re the kind of person who likes to always find positive things to say. Either way, I’m not sure I want to ride with you.
• “Nice weather for a ride” (uttered when the weather is terrible): The pretentiousness of this statement makes me want to scream. Either you want me to believe that you really think the weather — which clearly sucks — is nice and that you are therefore a hearty soul who is unaffected by such trivial things as freezing rain and icy wind, or you want me to join you in your cliché little bout of sardonic humor. Either way, I’m not buying. In short, please: don’t talk about the weather unless you have something unique and interesting to say about it. And since the weather tends to repeat itself and has been observed by zillions since the beginning of time, my guess is the likelihood of your having a unique, interesting observation regarding said weather is poor.
• “Sorry I’m so slow.” You’re riding with a group, so someone’s bound to lag a little. That’s fine. That’s expected. But then the slow guy has to go and make a self-validation ploy by apologizing for his slowness, in the hopes that everyone else will say, “No, you’re doing fine! You’re as fast as the rest of us, practically!” Well, guess what: while we may be saying those words, what we’re actually thinking is, “I’m just glad that I’m not the one off the back today.” From now on, anytime anyone says, “Sorry I’m so slow” to me, I’m going to look him in the eye and say, “I forgive you, for I have a generous heart.”
• “I haven’t had a flat the whole season.” You know, by saying that, you’ve alerted all the nails, broken glass, goatheads and vipers with very sharp teeth to your whereabouts. They’re going to find you.
• “This road/trail/course sucks.” No, it doesn’t suck. No road, trail, or course is objectively bad. Given the right bike and the right riding attitude, I believe just about anywhere can be fun on a bike. You’re just having a bad day. Quit complaining.
• “This course used to be great, back before….” Yes, gramps, those were the good ol’ days. Maybe it’s time for you wind up this ride and get on home; there might be teenagers trespassing on your lawn.
• “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it on that ride. If I’m more than ten minutes late, go on without me.” No, how about this instead: Show up for the ride on time. Or if you can’t make it, let us know beforehand. Or if you’re saying this as a mealy-mouthed way of saying you’re not going on the ride without actually coming out and saying that you’re not going on the ride, try this instead: say you’re not going on the ride.

Variants of these phrases shall also not be tolerated. Any infractions will result in the immediate, non-negotiable issuance of a demerit.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

PS: My house goes on the market tomorrow; I’ve been racing around all week getting it just so for the open house this weekend. Can you tell I’m wound a little tight?

I’ve got a favor to ask. Or, more accurately, as my 10-year-old son’s research assistant, I have a favor to ask. He’s working on a science project on reaction times, and he needs more data.

So I’m asking you to conduct a little experiment and send me the results. It’s easy, and it’s super-fun. Oh, yes. Super-duper-fun.

I worry that I may be overselling the “fun” aspect of this. Perhaps I should also emphasize that today’s Banjo Brothers Bike Bag Giveaway is based on participation in this experiment. Specifically, I’ll be selecting (at random) a winner from the people who send in information. The more people you collect info on, the greater your chances of winning.

How Fast Are You?

Here’s what you need:

• A ruler
• A table and chair
• A helper

Here’s what you do:

1. Sit with your forearm on the surface of the table, with your writing hand extending over the edge.
2. Have your helper position the ruler with the zero end between, but not touching, your thumb and fingers.
3. Have your helper release the ruler without warning.
4. As soon as the ruler is released, catch it as quickly as possible between your thumb and fingers.
5. Repeat the process, noting your best effort of the two.
6. Send me—either as a comment or as email—the following:

·         Your age (it’s OK to just note “adult” for adults)

·         Your gender

·         Your best distance (rounded to the centimeter or half-inch)

Then do this same test on every single person you know, and send me their information, too. Make it an obsession. And while you’re at it, be sure to do this test on plenty of females. Looking at the results my son’s collected so far, I can see he’s shy around the ladies.

In the interest of full disclosure, I caught the ruler at 5 inches. That makes me faster than most, but not the fastest. The triathlete down the street beat me. Grrrr.

Thank you for your cooperation, and for your indulgence as I hijack my blog in the interest of my son’s grades.

A few days ago, Bob and I rode the Crop Circles / Mr. DNA / Tapeworm trail system. It was raining lightly (yes, even though it was spring in Seattle), so the roots, rocks, and wooden stunts were slippery.

Early in the ride, we came to a seesaw. This one was taller and shorter than the seesaw I had ridden the last time we had been in the area, the board was narrower, and it was made of smooth wood. Also, the approach was downhill and around a bend.

I admit it: I was scared.

I approached the seesaw too slowly. By the time I was about halfway up, my front wheel was wobbling. I nearly stalled out, and my front wheel rolled off the right side of the seesaw.

This, as you may expect, was not a desirable situation.

From a height of probably five feet, I fell over the front of my bike. Ordinarily, I’d put my hands out to catch my fall, but this time I didn’t. I pulled my arms in toward my chest, and landed in a nice forward roll, finishing in a sitting position, astounded that I was not hurt even a tiny bit. I sat for a moment, stunned at my good fortune.

Bob shouted, as I sat there, dropped his bike, and ran over. “Are you OK?” he asked.

I admitted that to my amazement, I was just fine.

Bob then started laughing, recounting how the fall looked from his perspective, describing the contributing factors to my crash, and how surprised he was that I hadn’t snapped a wrist on that fall.

It was at this moment that I realized the reason I really like riding with Bob. He knows proper crash etiquette.

And Then There’s Brad

Bob’s behavior stands in marked contrast to how another friend of mine reacted after I crashed. Let’s just call him “Brad” (because his name is in fact actually Brad). He and I were riding a goat trail coming down from Jacob’s Ladder, which is part of the Hog’s Hollow network. I had never ridden this descent before, and so was surprised when it suddenly terminated with a three foot dropoff onto a dirt road. I flipped over my handlebars and landed on my back. It hurt. A lot.

Brad, naturally, took this opportunity to immediately begin laughing his head off. Without asking if I was OK. Without saying, “Sorry I didn’t warn you about how this trail ends.” Without any clue that several years later, I’d be tearing him a new one in the most public way I could imagine.

Proper Crash Etiquette

So, let this be a lesson to you. If you don’t follow the rules of Crash Etiquette, you may someday reap the consequences (Have I mentioned that this is the same Brad who bailed on his last lap when we were racing the 24 Hours of Moab as a 2-person team, and then didn’t even stick around to see me finish when I did his lap for him? Yep, he just packed up his gear and went home while I was on the course.).

Luckily, the rules of Crash Etiquette are quite simple. Most anyone can follow this simple five-step procedure:

1. At the moment of impact, express astonishment and dismay.  The best possible noise you can make when another person crashes is the noise you imagine yourself making if you were to have that selfsame crash. But an audible gasp or “Whoah!” will do fine.
2. Immediately check to see if the crasher is OK. Saying “Are you OK?” is the correct way to do this. If a pool of blood or a compound fracture is evident, you should still ask the question.
3. Recount the incident. While the crasher is collecting his or her wits, describe the accident, in as dramatic fashion as you possibly can. This will help the crasher feel like the pain is worth it. Anything for a good story.
4. Once the crasher stands up, you are allowed to laugh. But not before then. And if the crasher is crying, you are not allowed to laugh. However, you are allowed to pretend the crasher is not crying, awkwardly avoiding looking at the crasher’s face.
5. Speculate. Spend a few minutes describing the root causes for the crash. Slippery rock, mossy root, off-camber trail, and scree are all excellent reasons.

Most of you will learn this procedure quickly and will have no trouble with this important process.

Brad, you may want to print it and tape it to your bike.

PS: Obviously I'm not writing as regularly as I usually do. This doesn't mean I'm getting ready to abandon this blog. I'm just really busy trying to get my house ready to sell, wrapping up my old job, getting ready for my new job, and so forth. I'll write as often as I can, and hope to get back to a regular schedule really really soon now.

Yesterday I accepted a new job, which means I’ll be leaving my old job. Which means I’ll be moving back to Utah.

Last night I also got a good night’s sleep — the first I’ve had in about four days. I swear, I can deal with just about any amount of stress if I’ve got a reasonable level of sleep.

And if I’ve had a good night’s sleep and a good burrito for lunch, I’m basically invincible. Increasingly fat, but invincible.

The Reasons

There are a lot of factors behind this change, but I’m just going to list the ones that are Fat Cyclist-relevant:

• El Azteca: There is nothing in the world quite like their Chicken Chipotle burrito.
• Tibble Fork: I missed riding it last year. I don’t want to go another year without riding that incredible, painful trail at least once a week.
• Lone Star Taqueria: Best fish tacos I’ve ever had.
• The Alpine Loop: The most beautiful, punishing ride you can do in 2:08 (on a really good day).
• Mi Ranchito: Stay simple at this place: Chicken enchiladas.
• Hog Hollow, Frank, Squaw Peak / Hope Campground, South Fork, Grove Canyon, Joy, Mud Springs, etc. Is there a better place in the world to live and ride than in Utah County, Utah? Well, maybe one could make an argument for Grand Junction, CO. Maybe there are other places. But I miss riding my home trails.
• The Core Team: It’ll be great to ride with Dug, Brad, Rick, and Kenny again. All I’ve got to do is get Bob to come back to UT and get Rocky to move to UT and the core team will be complete. Maybe I can get Nick to move to UT too.
• Moab: It’s a three hour drive away.
• Gooseberry: Really, no one state has any business having this much great mountain biking, but there you go.
• Botched: OK, I’ll be honest. This is the real reason I’m coming back. I want to ride with Botched.

One to Go.

So now we get to start selling the house, looking for a house, and convincing the kids how much fun it will be to leave all their friends and one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in the world.

And then there’s one other thing — maybe — which I’ll find more about sometime soon.

Tomorrow I Will Be Funny.

No, really. I will. I'll be hilarious.

Believe it or not, people (by which I mean “more than one person, though not many more”) who are considering writing a blog of their own have asked me for tips on how to make their blog successful.

I always offer the same three pieces of advice:

1. Don’t blog about blogging. Writing about the consternation you are experiencing because you have nothing to say is an excellent exercise, which you should then immediately delete without showing to anyone, ever.
2. Be about something. If your blog is about your entire life, it will probably be interesting to your family and closest friends (I’m being generous by including your closest friends in this list), and nobody else.
3. Write often. Don’t make people come back and read the same thing over and over. I mean, really.

I present this list because today’s post breaks all three of these rules. I’m blogging about my blog. I’m not writing about biking, nor my fatness. And I’ve been irresponsibly flaky in my post frequency for the past several weeks.

What I’m doing, in short, is making a long-winded excuse for the fact that I’m really preoccupied with two big ol’ scary things in my life right now. One is a decision I need to make, the other is something I have no control over and just need to wait for more information.

It’s hard to be comical, punctual, and on-message when stuff like this is happening.

And of course I’m being vague here. I’m sorry for the coyness. I will likely be able to talk about one of these two things tomorrow. I’m not sure about the other one. Probably end-of-week for it.

Things will be back to normal soon. At least, that's what I keep telling myself, while taking deep breaths into a brown paper bag.

PS: I forgot to check my weight today.

PPS: Does anyone know why people used to take deep breaths into a brown paper bag as a treatment for panic? Did it work? Why is this practice no longer in widespread use? Did you use a search engine to find your answer? Is it fair to say that all quests for knowledge now start with a search engine query? Will someone please just knock me out with a hammer, blackjack, or other blunt object, please?

Dear Cannondale,

I was thumbing through the current issue of Velonews when I came across the following ad (click to see large version):

Cannondale, I’m afraid your ad agency and I need to have a little talk.

It’s Like Outfitting Street Thugs with a Fleet of Ferrari’s?

Let’s start with the headline. You are saying, in effect, that giving Cannondale road bikes to Team Health Net is like giving violent felons overpriced, mechanically finicky sports cars. This seems ill-advised, at best.

Clearly, Cannondale, your ad lets the world know you are one angry company. And I’d be angry too if I had recently gone through bankruptcy due to one of the most outrageously boneheaded business moves in recent history (maybe the motorcycles would have been more popular if they had a “Lefty” fork?).

The text of your ad (click to see larger, more legible version), though, is more than just angry. It’s comically angry.

Let’s analyze it.

• North American cycling is like a street fight. You see, Cannondale, you’re starting off on the wrong foot here. I can see that you’re trying to hint at the brutality of the term “gang fight” without actually saying it, but the term “street fight” just makes me think of West Side Story. Next, I think your metaphor doesn’t really work. You see, North American cycling is more like a race than a fight. Specifically, it’s like a European road race, but not as fast, interesting, or dramatic. But I can see how that might not make good ad copy. If you need a more accurate metaphor, I’d like to suggest the United Nations. Think about it: Separate factions come together, mostly working cooperatively, while keeping certain personal or team agendas in mind. Good visual potential for the ad, too.
• Chains are flying: Next time you think about running an ad, Cannondale, you may want to run the copy by someone who actually rides a road bike. When I hear “chains are flying,” I think, “Wow, the frame must be horribly out of alignment. That must be a terrible bike.” I don’t want my chain to fly, Cannondale. I want it to silently spin on the cogs, an unobtrusive blur of motion, whirring so smoothly and steadily that you have to look closely to tell it’s moving at all.
• Elbows are clashing: Okay, now you’re just reinforcing the West Side Story image. I mean, do elbows ever clash anywhere besides in choreographed fights in musicals and Michael Jackson videos from the 80’s?
• Heart rates are pinned. Pinned? Pinned? Now not only is my mental image of North American cycling trending toward a community production of West Side Story, it’s now a community production of West Side Story as performed by Phil Liggett.
• And the baddest gang by far is Health Net Presented by Maxxis. Look. You’re just embarrassing yourself when you show off a bunch of skinny white guys in what looks like Garanimals as imagined by Eminem, then say “baddest.” Also, this verbiage, combined with the West Side Story imagery, forcibly calls Michael Jackson videos to mind (“Because I’m bad! I’m bad! Jamon, you know it!”). Please, cut it out. I beg you.
• Now, imagine giving a bunch of thugs the fastest get-away vehicles around. Now I’m confused. Are the bikes weapons, or getaway (or “get-away” as you seem to prefer) vehicles? And why are these guys running away from a fight? Are the Health Net guys cowards? Or are they just bad dancers?
• That’s what we did when we hooked these guys up with a quiver of Cannondales. Oh, for crying out loud. A quiver? Now you’ve switched over to Robin Hood imagery.
• This is one hostile gang that’s gonna steal every podium in sight. Oh, that’s smart. In this age of constant allegations of illegal activity by professional athletes, use your ad space — one of few places where you control the message — to say that your team needs to steal in order to win. I’m curious, Cannondale: do you have a follow-up ad planned showing the riders selling crack?

It’s Not About the Bikes.

Cannondale, I’d like to ask you a question that your ad agency should perhaps have asked itself: “What business is Cannondale in?” It seems to me that you might want to be in the business of building and selling bikes. If that’s the case, I’d like you to take a good look at how prominently your bikes figure into this ad.

and

These photos are so dark and the bikes are so well-hidden, I can’t tell what models they are. Frankly, I had to take a close look to determine that they’re even road bikes. And I for sure can’t determine that there’s anything remotely Ferrari-like about them.

Nor, Evidently, Is It About the Riders.

One could reasonably argue, however, that this ad isn’t really about selling bikes. It’s about promoting the Health Net team. In which case, I’d like you to take a look at the faces of Team Health Net (click to see larger version), which is, by the way, a medical insurance company:

I looked at these faces, and then, just for fun, went to the team site and tried to match the racers on the site to the gangstas in the ad.

I couldn’t. They all look like Eminem to me.

I feel especially bad for this guy, though:

Looking at him, I have to ask: Why is his hat so big? Are those white velour sweatpants? And most importantly, does he really plan to use that bike chain as a weapon, or did it just “fly” off his bike, due to a misaligned frame? 

To conclude, Cannondale, I would like to offer some advice: Just play it cool, boy.

Real cool.

Kind Regards,

The Fat Cyclist

PS: Cannondale, my weight today is 167.2 pounds. Do you think I’m too fat to be a bike thug?

I have not always been obsessed with mountain biking.

Once, in fact, I was an ordinary guy, with a variety of interests. Sure, I loved biking, but I wasn’t in love with it.

The problem was, though, all of my friends had pretty much already caught the bug. They had started buying the lightest cross-country bikes they could afford, and were racing on Tuesday nights. They were training. They were watching their weight. They were selecting rides based on what kind of workout they’d get: the more climbing, the better.

Naturally, every group ride became a race. And naturally, as the newest — and sole remaining recreational — rider in the group, I always came in dead last.

Usually by several minutes.

Last Straw

For a while, this didn’t matter at all to me. Well, actually, I should point out that previous sentence is a total lie. Every ride, as I rode up to the designated “regroup” spot and saw everybody watching me, I’d be embarrassed. Not embarrassed enough to do anything about it, but embarrassed.

Then, one day, at the top of Frank, Dug and I had an exchange.

“So,” said Dug, as I churned up to the top of the climb in my granny gear, “Did you have a flat on the way up, or what?”

This was perfectly normal trash talk, but I was in a foul, embarrassed mood. “Shut up, Dug,” I said. “Why don’t you start always riding with guys who are three levels faster than you and see where you sort to in the pack.”

“You shut up,” said Dug. “I already do that every Tuesday night.”

“And does the winner ask you whether you flatted out during the race?” I asked, probably more petulantly than I intended.

“Whatever,” concluded Dug, and he rode away.

Vow

Having written it down, I can see that this is a pretty silly conversation. But it stuck in my craw. And no, I don’t know what a “craw” is, which makes having a conversation stuck there even worse.

Turning this talk over and over in my mind over the next few days, I reached a conclusion: the only way to definitively win this argument was to become the fastest rider in the group.

So I started training. I bought a light cross country racing hardtail. I started doing the Tuesday night races. Before long, I started placing well. I dropped 25 pounds. I started seeking out long, difficult climbs. I would experiment to see how much pain I could live with before I blew up, then learned how to stay right at that threshold. 

It took about three years, but I got to the point where I could outride even the fastest of my friends.

At least on the climbs, anyway. I’m still the one they wait for at the bottom of the descents.

The Part of the Story I Never Tell Anyone

During the three years I was focusing on becoming a fast climber and racer, my friends were exploring other biking interests, as well. So, about the time I got to where I could keep up with them, they were discovering full-suspension.

And they were losing interest in racing.

The practical upshot of this was that right about the time I became fast, my friends lost all interest in being fast. They were all about downhill and doing cool moves.

Neither of which — of course — I am any good at.

Today’s weight: 167.4