Friday, January 15, 2010

I’ve done a lot of things on bikes. I’ve raced them on the road, on the track, on rollers indoors and on mountain bikes (in both cross country and [never again, thanks] downhill disciplines) outdoors. I’ve raced in all manners of weather and at all times of day, but today brought me an opportunity (via a guest pass from my friend Andrew) to try a new cycling experience—the spin class. Unless you’ve been held under house arrest with no access to the Today Show, you know what a spin class is—groups of people gather together in rooms with lots of mirrors to ride stationary bicycles, listen to music and get instructed and/or berated by an instructor.

I, of course, have ridden bicycles with groups of people before, but this was different, this would be riding in a room full of people, there would be opportunities and occasions where people might actually stare and point and laugh. There would also be no opportunities to drift to the pack of the group and expel the repellent "digestive vapors" that sometimes build up inside of me when exercising. I couldn’t help but feel that I was going to serve as an ambassador for cyclists everywhere. I felt a heavy burden. What should I wear? Would it be presumptuous to bring my own pedals? Would I be able to pee while riding like I normally do?

I decided to eschew any cycling specific hardware. I would leave my pedals at home. I would however "kit up" in a pair of bib shorts (to please my sponsors) and a sleeveless base layer (to please no one), as I assumed that I would sweat in the same manner I do when I ride indoors at home—profusely and with a distinct air of oncoming decrepitude. I brought one water bottle and moseyed into the class to find my stationary mount. I fiddled with the adjustment knobs on the immobile pedaler until I found a position that settled somewhere between "adequate" and "non-hobbling". As an aside, I can tell you that nothing is more "pro" than fiddling with your equipment—which sounds very dirty also—alas, there is a fine line between "dirty" and "pro". Nonetheless, I believe my fellow spinners were impressed by my attention to detail.

In a group ride outdoors, the view normally shifts from the backside of the rider in front of you to brief vistas of backside-free scenery. In a spinning class, you have a room full of people staring you in the face, or staring at parts of you via a series of mirrored walls. For someone that’s used to riding outdoors unnoticed, this notion is very disconcerting. I felt self-conscious. I thought that I could feel their eyes upon me—as I was the only person in the class with sponsor names stretched over my posterior—but in actuality, they were probably taking little notice of me, as they were most likely planning the rest of their day or dwelling on the to do lists that pile up when you live in a New Jersey suburb and have kids in school. I did decide to not take a whiz while riding my spin bike though, so as not to draw extra attention to myself.

I began my warm up spin, and as I scanned the room, I couldn’t help but notice a broad range of pedaling styles and techniques. Some of my fellow spinners were grinding so slow that their pedal revolutions seemed to mimic the rhythm of a water wheel powered by a stream of creeping lava. Some bounced on their saddles like ping pong balls in a lycra-clad lottery drawing. Some were even doing things with their arms, something I think they call "stretching". I averted my eyes, to ensure my pedaling rhythm wasn’t unduly influenced by the calamitous cacophony of cadences collected in our cube of collaborative conditioning. A rider’s pedal stroke is, of course, a very precious commodity; and must be treated as such—I don’t even allow any down tempo music to be played in my house—lest I be inadvertently influenced to wash dishes about at anything less than a pace of 90 beats per minute.

Our instructor arrived, and the class began. I soon found out how integral to the class the soundtrack was. We seemed to stand on the choruses of many songs, and on some songs we matched our pedal stroke to the beat of the music. In my mind, I am deeply entrepreneurial and as I was pedaling along to the songs, I fantasized about gaining fame and riches by starting a band that makes music specifically for spin classes. I would call the band "Spin-gasm"—look for our debut album, "Sweating with Strangers" to drop early next year.

Meanwhile, in the mirror room, we were getting up and standing a lot, I mean a LOT. And when spinners stand, they bounce on their handlebars, in what I think mimics a push-up motion—or they are readying themselves to perform the most hostile form of CPR imaginable. I did most of the standing, but I avoided the CPR push-ups—if I were to mimic that bouncing motion in the wild, I would certainly be tossed from my bicycle in a wobbling mass of jog bra and upper body strength. The long stretches of standing soon began to take their toll on me. Outdoors, I only pedal standing up when there’s absolutely no other option—during sprints, briefly during climbs or when I pee, so the extended bouts of standing in the spin class dictated that I formulate a plan for survival—I would stand, but I would pedal really slowly.

My "slow stands" brought forth newfound energy, my mind started to wander and I searched for things to do with myself (while seated, of course). Normally, when riding indoors on rollers, my options for amusement are limited to: riding faster, riding at an increased pace, riding more quickly or riding with one leg. I decided to try and ride one-legged. Evidently this is a no-no in the world of spinning, as the instructor informed the class that they were supposed to "keep both feet in the pedals". This message was, of course, meant for me (everyone else in the class had at least two feet in the pedals), but the instructor was being polite and didn’t single me out for a reprimand. This incident was soon forgotten though as the chorus to "Sweet Caroline" was upon us (bum bum bum), which obliged us to stand up and bounce about.

The class soon finished after about 4,000 intervals and 6 hours of standing. I was quite exhausted from standing, pedaling furiously and holding my urine. I thanked the instructor for a lovely class and retired to the locker room, where I was exposed to the excessive amounts of male nudity that’s seems only available at health clubs.

All in all, I would say it was a successful training day.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

My hectic weekend parenting and birthday party schedule relaxed briefly this Saturday allowing an opportunity for a rare long ride (by my standards). My teammates were planning a ride later in the day because they are either childless, single or are involved in dead, withering relationships, so I turned to the internet to assemble a group to ride with at an earlier time on Saturday. Luckily, I was able to rally a good group to meet at the George Washington Bridge at 9 am. My plan was to actually ride earlier, but 9 am was the time that was convenient for Jed, so I acquiesced and planned to meet the group at 9. It’s best to not anger Jed, as he has powers, formidable powers that originate from his prodigious fecundity.

In order to make the most of my small ride time window and to also avoid defying the mighty Jed; I dropped down to River Road and rode for an extra hour before meeting with the group. This served to allow myself some smug secret self-satisfaction, as I would play the part of the dedicated athlete toiling away in the early hours as the rest of my compatriots stayed ensconced in their cozy homes. Of course, my ride companions were probably out on the road at 8 am already in order to make our bridge rendezvous at the 9 am, but for the purposes of my self-delusion; I’m going to assume that they all floated to the meeting place—as maintaining my self-delusion is more important than adhering to the rules of time and space.

Our group convened, and it was Mike, Jed, BIll and myself. We planned what’s known to the New York cycling public as a "muffin run"—a ride to the Piermont "muffin-done" clinic at a leisurely pace. We set off and talked of things that people speak of when they are straddling bicycles: The Jersey Shore, John Hughes films, the structure of USA Cycling, and in my case, the value of the pelts of the dead animals laying in the road (dead raccoons=dollars!). For the most part, it was a delightful time. Things did take a turn for the worse when Mike tried to kill all of us with his pace on the ascent of the Tallman Park Hill, but all was forgiven when we regrouped at the top. He did try another murder attempt on the State Line Hill climb, but I was ready this time. We did leave Jed and Bill for dead, but I choose to blame the victims in this case. They really did have it coming.

We regrouped again and rolled back to the bridge in a contented cluster without incident (except for passing a fetching fox carcass in the road—sadly I had no mean of conveyance to bring the cadaver home—profit opportunity missed!). We said our goodbyes at the bridge, and I left for home, remembering this time to bring along my front wheel, but sadly carcass-free.

Monday January 18, 2010

After Saturday’s long (for me) ride, I took Sunday off in order to allow the effort to soak in. I have said before that I excel at resting—I am able to soak up efforts like a persioner’s elbow soaks up Ben Gay—and I was to able put on a fine display of sofa based recovery intervals. I took to the Saddle River Bike Path with the renewed vigor that can only be gained through a structured program of sloth and athletic neglect.

Today was a lovely, sun-filled January anomaly and I rolled over my familiar paths as if I were back riding them for the 45th time all over again. Due to the holiday, the paths were clogged with dog walkers, roller bladers and aimless wanderers. And I, like my fellow pathmate the Frighteningly Skinny Lady, was soon put off by the crowd of newcomers and I left the path behind to hit the mean streets of Bergen County. 
 
I am sensing that my Power Tap is reaching its end, as I had some ghost numbers today. I came home to see a max wattage number of 1184, which is interesting not only because it’s a new schmalz sprint record, but also because I did not do any sprinting whatsoever during my ride. I am left with the conundrum of either accepting the fact that I can hit 1184 watts by just riding around dog leashes on a bike path or admitting that my Power Tap may be developing Alzheimer’s.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Yesterday’s effortless 90 minutes (with a new record sprint wattage) gave way to a feeling of impending dread towards today’s ride. The weather today was that awful combination of uncommited moisture and slightly cold temperature. It wasn’t raining so much as it was "seeping"—there was a pervasive wetness hanging around. A wetness so vague it couldn’t even manifest itself into rain drops. It was a "sullen teen" sort of moisture—and there is no worse kind. Since it wasn’t actually raining, I suited up and rode forth into the emo malaise that was today’s weather. I had a short day planned today, as all I had to do was complete a set of 20/10s. Which I did, and then I went home to listen to Smiths records in my bedroom, while staring at the phone, unable to decide whether I should call the girl from English class.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Normal ride, normal conditions, nothing to learn here. 

Thursday January 21, 2010

Today I finally figured out a configuration to download my Power Tap data to my Mac. I am using Golden Cheetah and I had to download the driver for my old tyme Power Tap cradle (which the new Power Tap software doesn’t support, unless I buy a new $50 cradle—which is like buying a bluetooth earpiece for a rotary phone). Golden Cheetah has some new and different information to stare at (xPower™ for instance—not sure what it is, but it is higher than my regular power from my Power Tap—so I’m all for it), so I have formatted the information in a new table for clarity. The data table has changed, but the numbers remain as disappointing as ever.