This week’s log finds me catching up on writing about myself riding on my bike. I haven’t been duly recording each and every one of my rides due to a heavy work load, the strains of organizing a boozy indoor roller derby, the rigors of writing overwrought sentences and the effort is takes to actively deny that I have come down with a cold.

I am sick. I don’t like to admit that I am sick. Ever. I could be coughing up mucous that has the hue and texture of road tar and I would tell my wife that I was feeling "allergic". I’m not sure why I don’t like to admit illness—I haven’t done anything wrong by becoming ill, everyone with school age children like myself knows that elementary schools are cauldrons of disease and contagions—but my usual reaction to becoming sick is to stonewall it, and deny, deny, deny that I have been infected.

Before I was married this denial of illness wasn’t an issue. I could float about in a haze of delusion without anyone alerting me to the fact that I was breaking out in a cold sweat by simply getting up and going to the bathroom. But now that I am married and living with three other potential diagnose-rs, the effort it takes to properly ignore ailments is becoming monumental. My wife will hear my coughing and recommend that I see the doctor (I see my doctor as often as I see my college friends—perhaps once every five years—and those visits are annoying because he gets really sloppy after three tequila shots). My daughters are acutely aware of the obvious and have not yet developed the necessary social restraint needed to refrain from reminding their father that he looks like boiled hell, so if I do happen to not have my usual look of gnomish radiancy, I will hear about it.

I can’t help but feel that my reluctance to admit illness might stem from a desire to avoid feeling frail and vulnerable. I am old—well, I am old for a bike racer—I would be an incredibly young Buick owner. (As an aside, I’ve written Buick’s new corporate catch phrase, "Buick, heaven’s four-wheeled waiting room.") Feeling sick at my age doesn’t get me a day off work or allow me to stay home from school, it just means being miserable both at home and at work (for me these are the same location, so that doubles my fun). It’s no wonder I deny illnesses.

And while we speaking of denial, here’s the rest of this week’s log.

Friday, December 2

I’m a bit of a lunatic when it comes to bikes, of course you’ve probably already surmised that yourself after reading word after slightly obsessed word of my training log and viewing my Val Kilmer pictograph weight-shaming system (the Shake Weight people are interested in building a "Fat Val" shaming franchise—fingers crossed!); but my lunacy really manifests itself when I ride bikes with other people. When I race, I play out mental scenarios that involve revenge, punishment, cruelty and pain—it’s how I relax—but that sort of mental diorama building doesn’t turn off when I ride recreationally. Oh no, I’m a nut when I’m out for a pleasant ride also.

Friday I was feeling a bit under the weather, my cold was entering its sixth day and I had been out cavorting with former Tour de France winners until very late the night before. I needed to ride to work the toxins out, so when Mike H emailed and said he was doing a mellow ride, I agreed to join him. For background I should explain that Mike lives locally, races in the area and is one of the nutcases who regularly commutes into the city after assembling at Maertens Body & Fender—even in February. He is also a very strong rider and is still in his twenties, so my inclination is to fear the awful things that he might do to me athletically. My naturally combative nature pushes me to find a way to survive or even thrive whilst riding with stronger riders, and since I consider Mike to be faster than me and I am also insane, I started conniving.

For the rest of this entry, you will need to place yourself inside my mind—it’s not too hard, imagine an obscure Paul McCartney and Wings song ("Single Pigeon" will do) and mentally refer to your as "Danimal".

I rode out to the rendezvous point to meet Mike. I was feeling a bit unfresh, but I was still optimistic. I met Mike and he said he hadn’t ridden in a while, so a slow ride was in order. I, of course, immediately recognized this classic racer ruse meant to lull me into a false sense of security, and right there that I decided that it was "game on". Mike and I rolled at detente for quite a distance, and I must say he was doing a great job at mimicking a recovery pace. Cagily, I played along.

Since we were doing a ride up through interval country, I knew things would ignite on Christmas Tree Hill. I gauged Mike’s pace carefully on the miles before the hill. Was he hiding his fitness? Was he saving himself for the hill? I decided to let the hill sort things out. "Solid plan, Danimal.", I told myself.

Once we hit the hill, I let Mike set the initial pace, as I feared an attack. And when Mike didn’t lay down the gauntlet, I decided to raise the pace. I poured on some power and feigned indifference, "Well played, Danimal!" I no longer felt Mike’s presence, and my confidence was building.

"Single pigeon, through the railing."

I was off and sailing, I had gapped Mike. I was flying home. I reached the 141 foot summit alone. Success! I waited for Mike after the climb, and when we regrouped, he remarked that I didn’t seem like I was riding the pace of a sick, hungover guy. For the rest of the ride, we reached a state of detente and Mike and I settled into a solid paceline, trading even pulls (although I was sure to place Mike on the front on any inclines whenever possible—the Danimal isn’t a fool) for the rest of the ride.

Now, here’s the ride from Mike’s perspective:

Why the hell is schmalz killing himself up Christmas Tree Hill?

Monday, December 5

Long time readers of the log will notice that I haven’t been posting any power data lately, and that’s because I’ve been both harboring a Strava addiction and I’ve been riding my Zipp 101s instead of my heavier Power Tap training wheels. I do this because they are nice wheels, they make me feel fast, and they raise my average Strava speed by about one mile per hour. With my recent illness and winter girth gain, it’s more important for my psyche that I feel fast rather than actually being fast—and with my 101s, I can also claim to be faster, when in actuality I’m only rolling at a greater speed with the same basic amount of effort. Zipp 101s—they’re like Spanx for bikes!

Tuesday and Wednesday, December 6 and 7

I was forced to ride indoors on both of these days, so I am lumping their reports together. I rode for an hour and fifteen minutes on both days. I watched television on both days, and I tried to suppress my revulsion for riding indoors on both days. I was successful on two out of three of those goals.

Thursday, December 8

The nasty weather finally broke today and I was able to take my daily ride out of doors. The sun was a welcome companion and I reveled in watching my long winter shadows stretch across the pavement. I returned home with cold fingers and a buoyed spirit. Unfortunately, Strava has been buggy of late (they’ve just upgraded their app) and I lost my ride data due to cropping the ride. (I crop every one of my rides, as I cannot abide having the time I spend noodling about in my driveway driving down my average speed—yes, I have a Strava problem.) I have put in a request to Strava tech support, but you will have to enjoy the truncated version below. Needless to say, there were no achievements on this ride.