It’s been famously said that it’s "not about the bike", and for most of us it isn’t—it’s mostly about punishing ourselves for (imaginary or genuine) transgressions while also punishing our associates for daring to attempt to co-opt our strivings for glory. Our bikes are merely the vehicles we employ on our paths to estrangement from the meaningful relationships in our lives and from the dosage of shame necessary to keep us from leaving the house wearing logo plastered underwear. But while racer’s journeys are tales of obsession and myopathy—and certainly not about the bike—it is an indisputable fact that every racer’s tale starts with the bike.

Every racer can tell the tale of their first racing bike—which is not necessarily their first bike mind you. A racer’s first racing bike is another animal entirely. It’s not the spider bike that appeared under the Christmas tree wrapped in a bow when they were in the second grade. It’s not the training wheel encumbered toy that led to the first pedal strokes. No, a racer’s first racing bike is the machine that reached out and said, "Climb aboard, let’s see how fast these other guys are." It’s the bike that first oozed purpose and whispered of glories attainable if the racer dedicated time and maniacal effort. It’s the bike that set a whole new set of dreams in motion. Not dreams about riding across town or emancipation from parental drop offs—those dreams were for the bikes that came before. Racing bike dreams are filled with victories, accomplishments and vanquished foes. It’s the bike racers looked upon with an almost lustful gaze. The bike that racers ran their fingers upon while passing it in its repose. This is the bike that seduced us, that changed us forever.

It’s also the bike that sets the aesthetic for the rest of the racer’s career. Racers are remarkably reluctant to embrace drastic changes in bicycle design, even if those changes afford them more speed. And the reason is simple—changing the look of the bike you started racing with would be like changing the face of the person you fell in love with—it’s unthinkable (unless you’re romantically involved with Jocelyn Wildenstein, then apparently, it’s very thinkable). The racer develops a "type" and then the die is set, all bikes that come afterwards are a reflection of the racer’s original obsession.

I came of bike age during the mid-eighties, an era which (of course) to me symbolizes the epoch of bicycle aesthetics. Skinny steel tubes abounded with colorful paint schemes fading from one color to another. Pedals had straps. The clunky non-aero brake lever cables were disappearing, ushering in the era of sleek handlebar design with brake cables and housing lashed to the handlebars and hidden beneath handlebar tape, as God intended. Those who are older than I will rightfully dispute the look of the aero brake levers, as they had the misfortune of having their aesthetic sense cemented in the era of those reprehensibly awkward arcing brake cables. And so it goes, each generation holds onto their preferences, and dismisses the preferences of the next. 

For instance, I cannot stand the notion that no one wants to paint a decent fade on their bikes anymore. In fact, I have refused to purchase many team bikes due to what I would call extravagant ugliness. The bikes were perfectly sound, engineering-wise, but I have caved to pressure from teammates to purchase frames that I wasn’t captivated by in the past, and I found myself resenting every pedal stroke astride those ghastly abominations. I did not enjoy riding those bikes. They did not engage my senses, I wanted to be rid of them as soon as possible.

I have pledged to never again ride a bike I find ugly. I simply won’t do it. No matter how cheap (or even free—but I never get free bikes) a bike is, I cannot stomach the notion of mounting another pig. My aesthetics won’t allow it.

Friday, December 17 and Sunday December 19, 2010

I include these two dates together because I have no recollection of riding on Friday, I have data from a roller ride on that day, but I cannot for the life of me remember what happened that day. It’s true, my roller rides have become so monotonous that I can’t distinguish one from another. I decided to remedy this on Sunday by doing some intervals. I don’t do intervals of the anally retentive coach-based, preposterously specific durations. You will never catch me doing a 3:47 interval. I tend to round my longer intervals to the 5 minute mark, and anything smaller is around 30 seconds gaps or whatever. In defense of coaches, I’m sure there’s lots of research that backs up duration at different intensities for maximal adaptations and sweet speed increases, but simply put, I cannot be bothered. To require that level of exactitude in my riding would be repellent to me, so I keep my intensity stuff simple, otherwise I wouldn’t do any intensity whatsoever. And I’m of a mind that some is better than none, at least that’s what my tax advisor Wesley Snipes has told me.

I did one 20 minute interval today, and a set of five 1 minute efforts. See how easy that is to keep track of? I was also able to set a new roller record for the training season today, lasting one hour and twenty minutes. I credit football and poorly functioning undercarriage glands. Wesley was very pleased.

In lieu of another shot of my basement, here is a shot of Happy. He is not athletic.

Monday December 20, 2010

Today I made like horse dung and hit the trail—do you realize that in some areas of the country, this sort of joke is considered humor? It is! Actually, I’m just polishing up on my colloquialisms in preparation for my family’s upcoming trip to Iowa. I’m also planning a sausage binge (try to ignore how dirty that sounds), so like a college sophomore saving up all her calories for a night crammed with mojitos, I’m eschewing any processed meats until I land in the Hawkeye State. After which I shall go on a tube meat tear so powerful it will distort Mariah Carey’s mirror back to it’s non-funhouse-thin proportions.

In the meantime, I made my way to the Saddle River Bike Path with no real plan or forethought. An early winter’s meander to prep my system for the upcoming sausage loading. Some ride to get faster, but at this time of year, I ride to allow a slip off the map of athletic obsession and into the deepest recesses of sausage consumption. Lord, that sounds dirty.

Careful observers will stare at this photo and get their freakin’ minds blown.