There’s a certain joy that bike racers take in denying themselves joy. It helps us feel special and set apart from the rest of the world. Of course lycra, shaved legs and Girl Scout-level upper body strength do a fine job of letting the rest of the world know what we’re up to, but sometimes it’s nice to go that extra yard. It feels good to turn down that piece of birthday cake at your niece’s party (if your sister-in-law really loved you, she’d consider making carrot cake), it shows your dedication when you are drinking water with a lemon wedge as your friends down beer after beer and enjoy each other’s company.

All of this is evidence of a seriousness towards bikes. You have modified almost all aspects of your life towards pedaling faster and with more efficiency. I should be applauding (and probably joining in on) such an effort, but in all honesty, I can’t bring myself to that level of dedication. Simply put—I cannot allow bikes to extinguish all the other joys in my life—no matter how (allegedly) fast it would make me.

Honestly, if I didn’t race bikes, I’m not even sure I would be a very healthy individual. I (mostly) watch what I eat, rest and train in order to race, not ride bikes. When not obsessing about racing, I like to watch TV, drink beer and recline as much as possible. I’m a lazy person trapped inside a racer’s compulsion. And I find tranquility in my life by balancing the lazy with the race-y, and it’s a delicate balancing act.

It all comes down to appeasing both the lazy me and the racer me, and to do that, I feel I must set forth some ground rules between the two warring factions inside the mock UN that is my psyche. Firstly, the lazy person in me has a few items that are non-negotiable:
1. Family time wins out. Even if there’s a race out there that I’m guaranteed to win (for instance, a race with a category for the New Jersey Masters Iowa Expatriate with the dreamiest eyes), family obligations win out. Even if it’s just mini golf, I’m putting instead of pedaling.
2. Hard shell taco night. Even if they start to make taco shells out of poison, I am still going to have at least five tacos whenever we have taco night. This is a deal breaker, no tacos, no races.
3. Alcohol. I can claim studies about red wine and beer and health and such, but the fact remains that sometimes daddy needs to get his drink on.

The racer demands are all detailed below in excruciatingly specific detail. My hope is that my love of family, tacos and booze will offset the mania that is bike racing and bring about a state of blissful equilibrium in my life, otherwise I shall end up a taco-filled, partially-inebriated bike racer surlily putting my way towards the clown’s mouth.

Friday September 23

I’m writing a recap of this ride a few days after it occurred, so details are hazy. I rode indoors and completed five 30 second high spin efforts. I may have also figured out how to make objects levitate, but I can’t recall.

Today I met up with my pupil Brian Gatens. Our plan was to meet up at 6:30 and ride if it was a dry day. Unfortunately it was dry. I say unfortunately not because I dislike Brian, but because I wasn’t in the mood to ride and riding with Brian requires that you manage Brian. You see, Brian rides with the fury of a bull that’s been punched in the face. He clips in and sets his mind to "goring speed". He will also ride this way regardless of the circumstances. He does it whether he feels good or bad, fast or slow—if he’s heading out the door, he wants to be nearly comatose with effort when he arrives home. It’s like riding with a motivational poster from Successories, and it’s really irritating in September.

In order to counteract Brian’s natural tendencies, I made sure to not come around him—that only makes him think he’s dogging it, and he will increase his pace. So I rode next to him as he half-wheeled me all the way up through interval country, slowly simmering his pot of Brahma. I then piled on the power as we went up Christmas Tree Hill in order to make a point. My reasons for this burst were twofold: firstly, to show I rock; secondly, to show Brian that he is strong, but just going out and riding like a shovel head when he is sandwiching a ride in between hard running efforts is counterproductive. By not doing any easy efforts, he’s bulldozing his athletic peaks into his easy valleys, producing an empty beige landscape of only one speed. Wow, I’m good at coaching platitudes, I should put that on a t-shirt. Note to self: call Successories.

Monday September 26

I awoke this morning to find that I was newly rotund from a chip binge at a bar-b-que, but in my defense, they were really good chips and I was simply being, you know, a person at a bar-b-que. I’ve said it before and as referenced above—I like being a person more than I like being a bike racer. And there was no way I was going to deny myself some sweet chip action in order to save a pound or two. If that makes me a bad bike racer then I am willing to risk it. Did I mention they were really good chips?

In the shameful depths of my chip hangover, I decided to switch things up and try a new route on my ride today.

Tuesday September 27

Tuesdays are for (briefly) suffering, so I did my duty and hit the road. I do my uphill 20/10s on the same hill on the same day of the week. It’s monotonous, but I find monotony soothing when it comes to riding furiously uphill for seemingly random amounts of time. As you can see from the Strava map below, Mike Beckerman also does some riding on my interval hill (known as Goffle Hill). If you look through past rides on Strava you can see that Mr. Beckerman has been "Strava bombing" my segments quite regularly. Also, he’s a keen volleyball player and practices his spiking technique with kittens tossed into the air.

I completed my scheduled intervals of agony and returned home, pedaling easily and planning a route secluded enough to not be "Becker Bombed".
 

Wednesday September 28

The weather as of late has been tremendously unpredictable. Let me modify that statement a bit—most of the predictions for the weather have been tremendously depressing—if you like being outside and not being dripped upon. This would not be so terrible if it weren’t September right now. Now that I am far removed (personally, my daughters are just starting to dread the end of summer vacation) from the trepidation of the beginning of the school year, I consider September my favorite month of the year. From a sports (watching) standpoint, September is a delight. In cycling, there’s the Vuelta and the World Championships. Football season begin. There’s two Formula 1 Gran Prix, and baseball is slightly less boring—but only just.

September is usually like a stoned summer, a little mellower but still pretty crispy. But this year we’ve been deprived of our "Spicoli Season" and it’s beginning to bum me out. I can only hope that October can hit the bong (kids—don’t do drugs) and save the fall for all of us.

Thursday September 29

The weather has again forced me into my basement to pedal away in dryness and ennui. I’m trending towards heavy today, and I cannot fathom why (I’d like to think it’s due to the weight of added mightiness, but it’s probably all that popcorn I ate last night). I did two five minute intervals to lightly flog myself, and I tried to get up near my threshold for each of them. The first interval saw an average heart rate of 166, and the second was 167, fine number sure, but not necessarily ones that will get my popcorn-filled keyster to athletic nirvana.