Why I’m not epic.

Since the dawn of bikes there has been a temptation for cyclists to describe their efforts in glowing or heroic terms. This temptation is understandable, as there’s something very inspiring about being the "meat motor" that propels a bike over long distances at a (in turn of the century nomenclature) breathtaking speeds. This trend toward flowery narrative traces its origin back to the inception of the Grand Tours. The races were for the most part publicity stunts meant to smear the names of the newspapers that sponsored the races across their respective nations. Naturally, the newspapers followed the action as the racers toiled their way across Spain Italy and France. And since "Frenchman rides for a long time and finishes ahead of other Europeans in a remote Norman village" wasn’t the type of headline that would grab the attention of the sporting public, the editors and writers working for the newspapers of the day spiced things up a bit.

That’s how bikes became epic. Soaring rhetoric about heroic accomplishments, glowing accounts about alpine passes, and (I would imagine) paragraph after paragraph about manly and prodigious mustaches—that’s what sold newspapers and made the Grand Tours what they are today. The echoes of these accounts are still with us. They live in the you tube videos of hipsters riding through traffic to a hip hop soundtrack. They live in the documentary style slo-mo footage of long bike rides through the hills to a bar-b-que. They live in the ubiquitous and inevitable blogs that seem to accompany every transcontinental bike ride. It seems that everyone everywhere wants to speak about bikes in hushed, reverent tones, as if plopping your backside on a seat and pushing pedals in circles is an activity akin to genuflecting.

I must admit that I feel a little out of place when it comes to embracing the "epic". It’s not that I haven’t been moved or inspired by moments spent on my bike—I have—I just don’t feel the need to pile my little Legos onto the 1/12th scale replica of the Battleship Epic. I have no pieces to attach that haven’t already been snapped into place. I don’t soar up climbs. I don’t valiantly suffer (I complain incessantly while suffering). I don’t wear wool to exercise. The dialogue inside my head while under duress is not a stream of tumescent Liggett-esque platitudes, it’s more a sewer of vile curse words and ill feelings towards my fellow man.

Many times I simply ride out of spite or to extinguish a foul mood. I need a vacation from the same old thoughts that rattle around in my head as I trudge through my working day. These are petty reasons for riding a bike really, but they are as good a reason as any to pedal about. I really cannot ride in any other manner. "A Sunday in Hell" is a great film, but it shouldn’t taken as the blueprint for the behavior on a group ride to a muffin shop or a spin on the bike path. My un-sacred feelings towards my rides might make me a minority in the cycling world, but in order to tolerate training—which can be monotonous and tiring—I need to be me. And I am a very un-epic person.

Friday, September 30

I’ve settled into my regular schedule for the winter training and that means that I sprint on Fridays (weather permitting). The weather did permit such endeavors today and I hit the road. I’m a big believer in sprinting regularly, sprints are like a perfume of mightiness that you puff into the air and then walk through in order to get just the right stink of speed on you. (How’s that for a manly analogy? Up Thursday—intervals—the Spanx of bike riding!)) My five sprints were scented with the following max wattages: 1051, 1008, 999, 1014 and 1026.

Saturday, October 1

Today I rode indoors for 30 minutes to mostly just keep the lights on, from an athletic standpoint. I rode for 30 minutes on my trainer, but threw in a set of tabata squats with 25 pound dumbbells. I like adding a bit of weight work to my trainer rides, I feel it helps to "fortify" my otherwise uneventful trainer sessions—and we all know anything fortified is better correct? Fortified cereal, fortified bread, fortified wine—that’s it! These fortified weight sessions are the Thunderbird™ of indoor exercise. Another training procedure branded. Take that Carmichael!

To add to the novelty of today’s ride, I also used my back up bike on the trainer, and since it doesn’t have a mount for my PowerTap, I had to improvise.

Monday, October 3

I took Sunday off because it’s flippin’ September, and there aren’t any bike races for me for another five months or so. Today’s ride was mosey around the northlands, I was tempted into doing a Strava effort on Goffle Hill to see if I could dislodge Mr Beckerman from his perch atop the standings. My effort was a dismal failure. I was a full 23 seconds behind the Becker Bomber, I would like to blame my heavy training wheels or any other assorted excuses I can conjure at a moment’s notice, but the reality is that I am slow.

Tuesday, October 4

Yes, I did my 20/10s today. That is about all I can say about that.

Wednesday, October 5

On Wednesdays I like to ride a little longer and perhaps toodle up to Skyline Drive (which is the the River Road of Northern Bergen County), which is the local summit in these parts. It’s known as Skyline Drive because, once you’re at the top you can see Manhattan, except of course in the summer when there’s leaves on the trees that block the view. Then you cannot see Manhattan, you can only trust when I tell you that, behind those trees, there is, in fact, a view of Manhattan. I don’t think anyone believes me when I tell them this.

Pictured:Manhattan

Here’s a comparison of Skyline Drive to the climb to the Ranger Station on River Road, I post this here because I want everyone to know that New Jersey in this instance is steeper, and therefore wins.

Thursday, October 6

Today was another foray into Interval Country. I can’t help but notice that my Strava route there hasn’t been Becker Bombed yet, but I know he’s lurking out there, waiting to upload his Garmin data. My 5 minute threshold intervals went by very pleasantly, as they kept my mind away from dark thought about being Becker Bombed.