It’s a question all bike racers (well, not the ladies in this case) eventually get from their non-cycling friends—why do you shave your legs? I don’t blame my friends for asking. Having a friend with shaved legs is like having a friend with a scar on their face—eventually curiosity will overcome any reservations you have—and you will have to ask.

I find that people have a lot of misconceptions about why cyclists shave their legs. Some assume that we shave for the same reasons that swimmers do, to reduce aerodynamic drag. This is, of course, not true. The aerodynamic advantages of leg-shaving are negligible at best, in fact, it might be faster to maintain or even cultivate the turbulent barrier created by a full-body man-fur suit in order to zip you on your way to a musky and revolting domination of your rivals. But in a nutshell, no, shaving is not for aerodynamic reasons.

Another potential explanation for leg-shaving is the theory that having hairless legs will aid in the healing of any road rash. I suppose if you were completely covered in a Wookie-like pelt, you may have issues with your hair being fused into a hard resin if you were to slide along the asphalt in a mishap. But if you have anything less than a thick, lustrous coat of fur on your legs; a crash will grind away your leg hair just like it grinds away the outer layers of your skin—and any remaining dignity you may have. So despite sounding like a rad explanation, because of the gnarliness and all, crashing isn’t the most justifiable explanation for leg shaving. 

A professional cyclist’s legs are the meal ticket, not only for the cyclist himself but also for the team he rides for, the support personal, his agent, and a whole network of clothiers who specialize in sparkly shirts and $900 denim jeans. So it stands to reason that his legs are treated with special care. They are rested, tested, rubbed and buffed on a daily basis, and the people doing the rubbing are usually the stalwart soigneurs of the peloton. Modern soigneurs come from all different walks of life and from points around the globe; but in the glory of days of cycling, they were rough and tumble types from around Europe whose demeanor and dress would remind an American observer of the boxing trainers from the 1940s. They were a sturdy bunch. And in order to properly execute their massage duties, they required that the cyclists in their care to remove their leg hair. This is a reasonable request, as the riders get daily rub downs.

Until as recently as the 1990s, Europe was a very hairy place. Men kept all of their body hair, and the women also, did not shave their armpits or legs, that was something reserved for prostitutes—or Americans. But things have changed, the American inclination towards follicle landscaping has spread over much of Europe. The spread has been a bit uneven though, depending upon which part of Europe they are from, women there may or may not shave their legs—the shaving may only be reserved for brothel workers—like the good old days. 

What does this foray into the world of body shaving have to do with cycling? As amateur cyclists, we are seldom rubbed by soigneurs, we shave our legs more as a tribute—to mimic the heroes of our sport. Our bare legs help to carry on the traditions of the continental peloton, in short, we shave so thick fingered fellows named Serge can feel like they are rubbing the legs of European prostitutes.

Friday January 29, 2010

Today I awoke to find that am at the relatively svelte weight of 151 pounds, I would like to claim my weight loss is from dietary dedication, but I think that I’m a bit dehydrated from last night’s red wine. It’s tempting to consider switching my on-bike energy drink to red wine for the weight loss benefits, but I fear that I will be trailed by packs of thirsty Frenchmen wherever I ride, and they can be very persistent—when they aren’t tongue kissing, of course.

I decided to give my dehydrated body a working over, as I would be riding indoors due to the cold brought forth by my heavenly coach, and would not be able to executive my normal Friday sprint workout. I chose schmalzbata as my preferred method of self-immolation, opting first for a set of squat jumps (a filthy enterprise) and then after a brief roller spin, some pogos (an endeaver that is merely soiled). I used the pogos to split my time on the rollers, but when I returned to my bike after my second schmalzbata set, I felt as if my legs were a pair of casings stuffed with ground lethargy. My plan was to ride for 60 minutes, but since I was pushing a pair of sloth sausages, I decided to cut my losses. It’s not wise to ignore your sausage.

Monday February 2, 2010

I didn’t so any riding over the weekend, as my body is trying to decide whether I am going to catch the bacterial infection my wife has. I decided to play it safe and not do any riding. I also decided to not ride because I am completely sick of riding. I can usually foresee the onset of training overload, and this instance was no exception. 

When I am approaching my burnout point, I find it hard to raise any enthusiasm to leave the house, I dread the idea of riding at any pace above plodding, and I start to wear enough layers as I putter around  the house to make myself look like a thrift store Michelin Man. My two days off were just what I needed to erase the distaste my training regime has left in my mouth. It was during these two days that I hatched my latest get fit quick scheme—I would slip over to the dark side—I would run.

The last time I went out for a "run" was about 7 years ago, and it really didn’t go well. I ventured out on the local path and about half way through the route I had mapped out for myself, I decided to challenge myself (as I was a bit bored—I was running, after all) by doing a few sprints. I began my "foot" sprint (which is a lot like my "pedal" sprint—imagine a sack full of copulating eels) only to be nearly brought to the ground by some sort of seizing action in my hindquarters. I had to slowly shuffle home in a modified quasi-modo manner, frightening villagers on my way. I decided then was running was not for me, as it meant debilitating pain and angry poking from the pitch forks of the village folk I encountered. 

But desperate times call for desperate measures, well, these aren’t actually desperate times for me, I just like beginning a paragraph with a bang. What I’m really trying to do is to increase the density of the activity in my workouts. (And how "coachy" does that phrase "increase the density" sound? I’ve got to think about trademarking that one.) My reasoning is thus: if I spend a bit of the time I ride my bike running, I will be using my arms, therefore almost doubling the energy I will be using—I will also be bobbing my head from side to side in a "nyahh, nyahh, na nyahh nyahh" fashion in order to maximize my energy expenditure—and also to more precisely mimic the dance from one of the character from the Peanut’s Christmas Special. I put a pair of shoes (I don’t own a pair of running shoes, as I don’t do any running—I don’t have any black smithing shoes either) in my jersey pockets and rode to the hill I would be running up. 

Yes, in a desperate bid at weight control, I’ve turned to running up hills—or more accurately running up hills with stairs conveniently located on them. I’ve become convinced (thanks, Cycle Sport February 2010 issue) that I can maintain my middle sized rodent weight by occasionally scaling inclines using my feet. I took it easy today—just three ascents of my training hill, which probably total less than a third of a mile. I am just starting, of course, and I do not want to grind my knees to a gritty pulp, but I’ve already started to fantasize about further cross training adventures. I can imagine myself cross training like Rocky in that one Rocky movie (who can keep track?) where he ran in the snow with a log on his shoulders, and then beat up guys in a sauna in the snow wearing nothing (hold on, that’s Red Heat with Arnold Schwarzenegger—I’m mixing up my 1980’s snow-based exertion sequences). Of course, I realize that Rocky was fiction—in those movies he: saved the world from communism, won the heavy weight title, ate some raw eggs and was able to locate his screaming lady friend in a smoky auditorium despite having half his face turned into meat—but that won’t stop me from dreaming about taking off all my clothes and beating Russians to a pulp in the snow. It’s good to know that I can still set goals for myself.

Tuesday February 2, 2010

In honor of Groundhog’s Day, (which isn’t actually a holiday dedicated to repetition—that’s a Bill Murray movie—Groundhog’s Day is a holiday dedicated to momentarily terrifying a rodent by shoving him in front of an assembled media throng, but let’s just suspend disbelief and go with the Bill Murray theme) I did a set of 20/10s. Just as I have for what seems to be 74 weeks in a row. Last week, I averaged 351 watts, this week I averaged 350 watts. In the interest of furthering some themes, I will choose to blame both the French and naked Russians for this one watt drop. 

Wednesday February 3, 2010

Like the groundhog that’s been unceremoniously shoved back into his burrow until the after the TV weathermen have left, so have I been shoved into my subterranean lair by my coach from above. There’s a light snow on the ground here in New Jersey, and that’s enough to send the skittish breed known as road cyclists underground, lest we ride outside, slip and fall over—ripping holes in our athletic leotards. I opted to keep my leotard safe today and rode rollers in my basement.

Since today is Wednesday, the cycling schedule of the ancients ditates that I do some sort of endurance ride. Endurance rides on rollers are only slightly less distasteful than eating an excrement quiche, so I faced today’s ride with some trepidation. I now have a (mostly) operational heart rate monitor, which allows me to actually do endurance rides at my endurance heart rate. I did that today, and I averaged 221 watts at 143 bpm. This number is about 20 watts higher than what I’ve been doing my previous endurance rides at. Basically, that means I’ve been riding at a pace that has been way too lazy. 

Thursday February 4, 2010

The melting snow has retreated towards the gutters enough to allow me to take to the roads of New Jersey. Thursdays are for long efforts and today I did two 20 minute "kinda hard" intervals. Ideally, these should be about 5 beats below my threshold heart rate, which is 175 beats per minute. Since my heart rate monitor has recently become semi-functional again, I was able to execute these intervals in the proper manner. My two intervals averaged 268 and 249 watts respectively, which is very similar to my indoor intervals of last week. This is evidence of a plodding consistency, something every bike racer aspires to.