I’m mad at you bike racing. I’m at the point in the season where I’ve nearly had enough. I haven’t heard from you in months and this training thing is hardly a worthy substitute. Sure, there’s the occasional group ride, but these are rides with people I like, and they observe "etiquette"—which doesn’t allow me to be sneaky, vindictive or cruel—and what fun is that? I ride to humiliate, punish and create a viable excuse to parade in public in a lycra sausage casing. I am nearly at my breaking point.

I’m mad about how I’ve changed since we began our relationship. I must confess, I’m not sure that I’ve grown as a person. I obsess about things (like aerobic decoupling—I have no idea what that is—but I must Google it now) that matter very little in the grand scheme of the Great Coach in the Sky. You’ve forced me to do math. I have become a semi-hermit who gets anxious on Friday nights if I have stayed up past 9:30, as I have to awake at 4:15 in order to do unwitnessed pre-dawn circuits of New York’s finest public parks. 

I’m mad that the vitamins I take have turned my urine into something that resembles the most disgusting Gatorade flavor imaginable. I’m mad that you reward my obsessive nature. I’m mad that you’ve made it OK for me to fixate on my body weight like a maladjusted high school wrestler. I’m mad that I have to consider whether a paleo diet might be right for me. I’m mad that there’s a diet based on the eating habits of people from an era with an average life expectancy of 14 years. I’m mad that you make me too tired to pursue a karaoke career. I’m mad that career success and bike racing success are opposing forces. I’m mad that I feel jealous of guys who travel to Arizona to ride and share a house with 14 other men. I’m mad that I watch the weather radar closer than Sam Champion.

I’m mad that you’ve made me learn French words.

I’m mad about the training time it takes to simply participate in bike races. I’m mad that my race winning percentage is .005%. I’m mad that my VO2 max is less than that of four stacked hamsters. I’m mad that I know what VO2 max means. I’m mad that I get anxious if I miss out on a training ride. I’m mad that I sometimes think about riding my bike when I’m playing Uno with my kids. I’m mad that my kids beat me at Uno because I’m distracted.

I’m mad that I miss my leg hair—as it was glorious. 

I am also mad about the following: saddle sores, Andy Shen, horse poop in my ears, mouth and eyes, frozen water bottles, agricultural tan lines, arguments about whether sunglasses should go over or under helmet straps, fatigue, and, of course, Jed Kornbluh.

There you have it, bike racing, I think were through. What’s that? You’re going to be in Brooklyn on February 21st? Get together? Sure, I guess so. Wear something tight? Um, ok…

Friday February 5, 2010

Today’s trudge through the training regimen is—since it’s Friday—a set of semi-spectacular sprints. I am trying to get in as many outdoor miles as I can as the snow is said to rushing towards us like the inevitable children’s book from Sarah Palin—I can’t tell you any of the particulars about the upcoming book, but I can give you a hint—it’s not about dinosaurs.

I retired to my usual sprint track for a set of 5 explosions of the fast twitch kind. My numbers weren’t bad, the max wattages were: 1014, 1068, 1074, 1059 and 986. That 986 number comes about because I had to slow momentarily to avoid a Bergen County Parks worker that had surprisingly left the comfort of his vehicle to wander into the road. I can only hope the concussive force of my passing didn’t knock him off his feet. Once I engage my sprint sequence, I cannot slow down until I am miles from the launch point—the world may never know what became of that poor parks worker.

Sunday February 7, 2010

Saturday night saw me dispatching nearly a half pound of cheese in fondue form while preparation for a cold, snowy Sunday. But alas, there was no snow to be found this morning as I awoke early to spin mindlessly in my basement health-o-torium. My goal was to ride for 90 minutes, but I fell short of my objective by 10 minutes, as my mind could take no more and hulu wasn’t working on my ham radio quality entertainment center. I couldn’t bear riding any longer without any contact from my Elmer in Nova Scotia, so I climbed off, to continue my day without snow or the static-filled ruminations of the Halifaxian morning.

Monday February 8, 2010

The cheese barge that I sent down my digestive canal Saturday night arrived at port this morning. It wasn’t a calamitous docking, but it did require a slow and meticulous approach to the berth. I was in no mood to ride today, so I opted for a route that would leave me no choice but to ride for at least 90 minutes. I call these my "Hansel and Gretel" rides, as they are straight out and leave me no option but to return, following bread crumbs back to the witches house where I hop into a hot tub with her and wait for the wolf to jump out of the boudoir. You’d think as a parent that I would know my fairy tales better, but I can tell you that most bedtime stories are semi-rushed affairs that serve to hopefully close the gap between waking and sleep (also known to parents as "the beginning of happy hour")—reading comprehension is not a big consideration. 

I was in a sullen humor throughout my ride, but the road to mightiness—and more importantly—the ability to ride in a spiteful and wounding manner, is a long and arduous one. And how else will I be able to find something with which to prop up my sagging self-esteem? I am nothing if I am unable to punish those that share the same myopic love of self-flagellation that I do. 

Tuesday February 9, 2010

I fallen into a rut of de-motivation, and to be honest, I would’ve preferred staying indoors today and abusing cheese like a rat on death row, but the snowstorm of the decade is descending upon us, and I must wring every possible outdoor mile out of the dirty dishrag that is the road network of Bergen County. I repeated the beginning of yesterday’s ride and dispatched my 20/10 intervals early so I could sulk away the rest of my ride. I’ve been feeling sullen lately—perhaps due to winter restlessness or just because it’s very fatiguing to ride without the prospect of any racing on the horizon.

The problem is that I feel that I cannot stop, as a quick survey of the internet (did you know that each person that rides a bike MUST start their own blog—it’s true, and if you are currently blog-less, you must at least Tweet or your shorts will be impounded) shows that everyone else is riding many more miles than I am. This is an unsettling notion for an obsessive person such as myself, as each of my measly 90 minute rides only serve to pale in comparison to the monumental 3 hour rides recorded by the legions of cyber-cyclists out there. I should realize that it’s folly to try and vanquish the entire internet by myself, but Al Gore can do it, then so can I.

Wednesday February 10, 2010

Like a pillow that smothers a vicious elderly dowager, a blanket of snow has fallen upon the New York region, bringing with it a sense of quiet and calm. A layer of snow has transformative qualities, it rounds off the angles and edges of everything it covers, making the world seem as soft and fluffy as a bowl of cotton balls. It also serves to drive all the bike riders off the roads. I was no exception, and I retreated to my basement to partially injure myself. I woke early this morning to greedily amass more training minutes, an amazing 15 minutes more.

My second foray into my basement would be another opportunity to pile up minutes, with two 20 minute intervals scheduled to help stave off boredom. Boredom was partially averted, but ennui still crept into cabin made of effort logs. 

Thursday February 11, 2010

Despite the white carpet that’s keeping road cyclists off the streets, the racing season is fast approaching, which means it’s time for me to awaken the sleeping giant of my threshold efforts once again. I did my first 5 minutes with moxie and then tried to replicate that same moxie again, without success. I later suppressed my disappointment with KFC.