The race doesn’t start until I put my sunglasses on. The act of carefully putting them on and holding them open to clear the straps of my helmet serves as the moment where I transform from an ordinary guy on a bike to a bike racer. My eyes are shielded from the elements, safely encased in impact resistant plastic. I no longer need to squint away the wind. The small space behind those lenses and in front of my eyes creates a little greenhouse where I can cultivate thoughts and feelings that would leave me ostracized, avoided and friendless if I were to enact them in the world beyond the colored plastic shields in front of my eyes. When it’s tinted, the world seems like a very different place.

Putting on my sunglasses completes my costume. And leave no doubt, it is a costume. Bike racers are very particular about their costumes, which they refer to as "kit"—racers prefer to use a more Eurocentric sounding term whenever possible. We racers like our kit tight, as ill-fitting clothing could potentially reveal to the world that the middle-aged man rolling by might not, in fact be an Italian professional on a training camp in Northern New Jersey. Baggy jerseys that are too large for our frail frames are frowned upon. The length of our shorts is a topic debated in the same manner as hem length, and woe is the racer who isn’t attuned to the latest trend in short length. Every piece of kit should be of team issue and match perfectly. It’s not something a racer would ever say out loud, but we love our costumes. We love being seen in them. It sets us apart, and if it is a jersey festooned with sponsor logos, all the better, as it shows that we are indeed worthy of being sponsored—someone found the real estate on our backside so valuable that they paid to place their name there. The corporate branding plumage that we present to the world shows that we have achieved a special status.

We are, of course no closer to being professional racers than the fellows in a softball league are to being Major League baseball players—our delight is in our delusion. Since most Americans have no concept of the sport of cycling, when people ask racers why we don’t simply do the Tour de France (many people with no knowledge of cycling assume the Tour de France is the equivalent of a 20-day French charity ride—you only have to register to race), instead of telling the truth and saying that we are, in comparison to actual racers, terrifically slow; we can forlornly explain that, since we got into the sport later in life, we were never really able to take our shot at the big leagues. I like to sigh when I give this explanation, as it gives the impression that I missed out on a terrifically lucrative and adventurous racing career.

Soon there will be ample opportunities for racers to show their costumes to the world and transform themselves from dentists, IT department workers and graphic artists into the sprinters, climbers and rouleurs that inhabit the world of cycling. And I will join the masses of the transformed, observing the world through the lenses of my glasses, seeing a slightly foggy world that’s been tinted into a more acceptable color.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Today was a lovely day, and as such it brought forth throngs of the kind of people who can populate the Saddle River Bike Path during normal working hours, namely the unemployed and the elderly (I, of course am neither, I am self-employed; which unlike being unemployed entitles me to no government assistance, and unlike being elderly—it offers me no opportunity to ever retire). The reason I mention these hordes of idlers is because I was intending to sprint my way to mightiness today, but alas the roads were filled with wanderers who over the course of the winter had forgotten how to walk in a straight line or even walk without creating a mobile red rover like human chain across the road.

Somehow I managed to commit ten sprints and their max wattages were as follows: 1035, 922, 1003, 986, 950, 935, 971, 1018, 983 and 1011. Try not to act impressed.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Today I awoke to a situation that I found doubly revolting. Firstly, I was waking early to train, which I find repugnant in the first place; and secondly, the temperature was 21 degrees when I awoke, crushing my prospects of riding outdoors like a bean bag chair crushes an errant cheese puff. I sullenly took up my trainer, and through the miracle of the iPhone, I am typing at you as I pedal.

I am, of course, only warming up; as typing during a bout of trainer mightiness would probably melt my phone as I held it, making it impossible for me to tweet butt jokes from the checkout line at the Midland Park A&P—a place I’ve come to know so well that upon arrival, I can smell whether they’ve run out of the large bags of Smart Food.

The goal for today is to somehow bolster my flaccid confidence for the upcoming bike season. In the evenings I accomplish this goal with vodka intervals, but during the daylight hours, I resort to exercise—and my exercise sessions aren’t exactly inspiring the delusional sort of hope I am looking for. I can only hope that all my competitors have had as terrible a winter as I, and have also been too poor to travel to remote and sunny environs to take up the athletic slack in their achievement ropes. I’m now taking this opportunity to recommend to all my bikes comrades that they work vodka intervals into their delusion regimen, as I do not want to be isolated and lonely at the tail end of the spring races.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

After observing President’s Day in my traditional manner, hung over and in reclined position (I foolishly challenged gin to a duel and lost); I was able to muster enough energy to face the prospect of another ride in my basement. Winter has once again covered New Jersey in a blanket of snow meant to put any rider foolish enough to venture forth on their backsides in a flurry of Lycra, carbon bits and lost dignity.

I chose to avoid any such trouble today by retreating to my groundhog burrow for a bit of heavy breathing and self-induced heart palpitations. My method of choice for setting my heart aflutter today was a set of 20/10s. These efforts were brief enough to not tax my gin-enfeebled system too greatly, lest I end up with a serious case of wandering vapor gout. I am glad to announce that I am as of this writing, free of any gout symptoms.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

You may have noticed that I tend to complain a lot in these log entries, and that’s because firstly I am a nit picking nabob, and secondly the burden of training for bicycle races is a daunting endeavor. I enjoy riding my bike, I really do; but the act of transitioning into a bike racer has turned the act of "riding" into "training". And there is a big difference between riding and training. Riding implies a fulfilling meander along country roads that culminates in a cone of soft serve ice cream on a park bench (68% of my mental fantasies involve soft serve ice cream). Training on the other hand, is a regimented series of rides meant to extract the maximum speed out of your body. In fact, you don’t even have to go outside to train, you can do it in your basement—how absurd is that?

I went for a ride today, screw training, it’s making me nuts.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Today I made a run out to interval country to do two twenty minute intervals, and during these intervals I averaged about 260 watts or so, which is impressive if you are an invalid or a cat 6, but otherwise these power numbers are pretty pedestrian. Recently I have been working on a project that involves converting various power numbers from one standard to the next. So on a whim I decided to see how many horsepower I was generating, and using an online calculator I discovered at 260 watts I’m creating a whopping .348665743 horsepower, or roughly 1/3 a horsepower. The online calculator that I used didn’t specify which third of the horse I was generating, but experience makes me think I’m probably outputting a solid throatlatch’s worth of horse energy.

To put my 1/3 hp number into perspective, let’s compare it to other engines’ output. An average gasoline lawn mover has about 5 horsepower or so; riding lawn mowers are in the 20 hp range. You can’t buy a gasoline powered string trimmer that has much less than 1 horsepower. The first automobiles from the turn of the century had about 8 horsepower, which I assume was eight times better than riding just one horse. In fact, almost all gasoline powered motors have much more horsepower than my little meat motor does, so in order to find a motor that has roughly 1/3 horsepower, I had to turn to electric motors.

Here I found a wider array of smaller horsepower options, many woodworking motors have anywhere from 3/4 to 5 horsepower. They can power saws, sanders, routers or any of the machines used to remove the digits from woodshop teachers, but even these motors were much bigger than my lowly 1/3 horsepower output. To find an equivalent I had to search a little more, but I did eventually find my motorized doppelganger. And it is—wait for it—an electric meat grinder and sausage stuffer. Mind you, it isn’t even the most powerful meat grinder and sausage stuffer available (there’s a 1.5 horsepower version out there, for people who really need their meat powerfully ground and stuffed, I suppose). This is, of course, a very humbling discovery. I was hoping at least for a band saw or wood lathe’s worth of power output from my gristle engine, but alas, I am a lowly meat grinder (who can also stuff sausage). 

As the race season begins next weekend, this is my last training log of the winter. I’ve worked my way through countless minutes of pedaling at various speeds and intensities. I’ve lifted things. I’ve attempted to lose weight. And the summation of my hours spent toiling and training comes to the power equivalent of a machine used to grind meat and shove that byproduct into a casing of used intestine—and if that isn’t an apt metaphor for the act of amateur bike racing, I don’t know what is.