I am a bike racer, and since bicycles have no means of locomotion other than the fool that is perched atop the tubes and bits of metal that comprise the average bike, I am the propulsion unit for the vehicle known as a bicycle. And since I am the "engine" that drives the bicycle’s progress, it only makes sense that I would monitor the emissions that my engine emits. I do not have the budget to connect myself to the series of tubes and hoses that would measure the gases that I expel (well, respiratory based gases at least, tubes for measuring the other gases I expel would be, I imagine, very uncomfortable), therefore I am left with observing and evaluating the bodily issuances that are available to me—namely issuances normally numbered "one" and "two".

I’m not sure if it is normal to examine one’s own commode "emissions", but according to many physiological experts (or people playing a very elaborate practical joke on the athletic community), valuable information can be acquired by scrutinizing lavatorial leave-behinds. The color of your urine can indicate your hydration level. The clearer your urine is, the more hydrated you are. If you urine has a yellow neon hue to it, you are expelling un-absorbed vitamin B12 from those big pills you take—or you have inadvertently swallowed Prestone. If your urine burns, you are a wanton heathen and God will punish you accordingly. And finally, if your urine is black, you are dead, and should be buried immediately. So you see, "tinkle" is a very complicated and nuanced subject, but it pales (no pun intended) in comparison to the top of the (digested) food chain, which is, of course, the fruit of the intestines, dung.

In a circumstance akin to reading the most disgusting tea leaves imaginable, it is also possible to read one’s own "deuce". I will now attempt to describe this process in a manner that isn’t completely revolting—well, as un-revolting as a discussion that involves my backside can be. A quick Google search (one that did NOT include an image search) reveals that "post-processed food" can be categorized and described in a veritable rainbow of repellent methods. Color, weight, scent, buoyancy, gas content, solidity, consistency and the inclusion of other "stuff" are all categories that can be used to classify night dirt. These distinctions are all well and good, but mostly I classify my ejections according to amount, duration, or on rare occasions, heat level (thanks Mexico). In an odd way, I consider an exceptionally ample porcelain proceeding to be an indication that I am on a roll athletically. The more I work; the more I produce (so to speak). In fact, I could even say that I ride to poop.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

I woke early in order to squeeze in a roller ride before my day full of familial duties (which included a viewing of the loathsome "Alvin and the Chipmunks—The Squeakquel") began. Today is my first training day of 2010, and it began with disappointing news from my scale. It seems that my New Year’s Eve meal plan of beef and a half pound of sour cream may have backfired on me. The number sat squarely between my toes this morning—156 pounds—a new training season record. Normally, I enjoy setting records—I hold the Ackerman Avenue record for "largest beard of bees"—but being surpassingly corpulent is record territory I’d rather not blaze a trail into. I am hoping that a day of dietary discipline and perhaps a lavatory "workout" will bring my newfound bulk back to an acceptable number.

On another disappointing note, I reset my PowerTap and found that my inflated "ghost numbers" from Thursday’s rides were a cruel hoax. I did however enjoy my two days of perceived mightiness—so much so that I didn’t consider the ramifications of ingesting a half pound of sour cream and a cow’s derrière’s worth of beef. But I am now considering permanently skewing my power numbers—as sometimes misinterpretation can be liberating. For example, entire foreign policies can be build on fishy information, so why not use ghost numbers to set my training goals for the new year? 

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Today’s rides were meant to serve as penance for the transgressions of New Year’s and the additional temptation of attending a birthday party for a very Italian friend at a reception hall shoved full of serving stations. I woke this morning to find that I had shrunk from my recent record weight. I now weigh 155 pounds, which is still off my rodent based shaming scale.

I rose early today in order to do the first ride of a double workout. I am hoping that the dual efforts will set my glands to percolating a carafe of un-portly-ness. 

Monday, January 4, 2010

Today my weight returned to a more manageable 153 pounds. I’d like to credit my double workouts and an inspired job by my digestive tract. While we’re on the subject of digestion, birds that eat carrion—like vultures and buzzards—have very strong digestive systems; in order for them to digest meals that are considered so disgusting that they make raccoons retch. Their stomach acids have evolved to a point where they can ingest toxins such as pathogenic bacteria or even a half-eaten sandwich left behind by Amy Winehouse without becoming violently ill. In my younger years, it seemed as if I had the guts of a buzzard; enabling me to eat whatever I wanted without dire consequences. But I have now found that as I have aged, my buzzard tummy capabilities have subsided; which means that I can no longer expect to consume lavish amounts of sour cream without fleshy repercussions. And this loss of my carrion devouring capacity strikes me as sad—I love "carrion stew night" at our house.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Today’s ride was a venture out into the cold to do a set of 20/10s, which is a thankfully brief workout. It’s good to know my above ground wattage is still in the 350-360 range, as opposed to my subterranean norm of around 325 watts. This is good news for the upcoming season—as I’m scheduled to do all of my races above ground. 

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

I rode outside today in the 35-ish degree temperatures, and I must admit that I did have momentary feelings of self-congratulatory smugness as I rode today, as I imagined myself a fit and virile rugged outdoors type blazing my way through the frozen landscape; while the meek and less hearty huddled indoors for warmth around fires started in trash cans. I may be crossing the streams of a few metaphors there because most people do not light fires in trash cans in their homes (excluding West Virginia, of course), for some odd reason one of the scenes from "Rocky" has infiltrated my outdoorsy fantasy—which is odd, as I usually fantasize about "Rocky" when I’m folding laundry.

But I digress. In my reconnoitering of my customary route along the Saddle River Bike Path, I came to the realization that I hadn’t encountered any of my fellow Saddle River Bike Path (SRBP) regulars in quite a while. I imagine that the MILF Hunter has ensconced himself for the winter, perhaps in a lair adorned in velvet, satin and paintings of bald eagles driving muscle cars. Reflective Helmet Guy, who I thought would be much more robust—as he seems to be of a World War 2 vintage, and would’ve, of course, been compelled to walk through 3 feet of snow for a quarter mile to use the outhouse and happy to been able to do so—has been absent. The Goose Feeder has made some select appearances, but they are sporadic at best. The only reliable SRBP regular has proven to be the Frighteningly Skinny Lady (FSL). FSL is an iron woman. She is, of course, would seem to be the frailest of the SRBP bunch (as she is really frighteningly skinny), but every time I venture to the path midday, there she is, wrapped in her white winter coat with the fur-lined hood pulled over her head—like a photographic negative of the Unabomber. She is a marvel.

Thursday, January 6, 2010

Wednesday’s plan was to rise early and do a double workout, but a late watching the Iowa Hawkeyes triumph in the Orange Bowl served to upend those plans. I made up for my slothful ways by doing a double workout today, which is sure to make up for any transgressions.

In the afternoon session, I did two 20 minutes intervals at my kinda hard pace, the first was at a 261 watt average, the second was at a 238 watt average. Normally, you’re not supposed to continue doing intervals if the there’s a drop off of 10% between the two, a 10% drop from my first interval would been a 234 watt average, so I was 4 watts over mediocracy. I’m going to go ahead and consider that a triumph of the will. I aim high.