Training for bikes is, at its core, just an extended exploration of one’s own body. (I’ll let the inherent dirtiness of that sentence soak in for a second.) Through training, we discover our strengths and weaknesses at bikes, and then we decide whether to train our strengths or weaknesses, or a combination of both. The end result is usually pretty easy to quantify, as the end result is quite literally, results.

Unlike triathlons or Tupperware Parties, in bike racing there’s no t-shirt or free Cake Taker for just participating or completing the event. To be recognized in the world of bikes you have to be successful, you need to beat other racers. This is hard. Bike races can often be difficult and the results can seem maddeningly random, many times the strongest rider doesn’t win due to tactics, terrain or bad luck. It’s this irritating arbitrariness is what makes bike racers so crabby and quick to complain. You can be the strongest rider in any given race and still not win. If everyone knows that you’re fast, your competition can gang up on you and frustrate your efforts by marking your moves or refusing to collaborate.

As racers, we try to overcome the inherently tragic nature of bike racing by pummeling ourselves with training. Hurting ourselves is the penance we pay to be able to race. We feel better when we are in pain, because, quite honestly, that’s what racing feels like. A lot of pain punctuated by disappointment at the end. This week’s exploration of my body (still sounds dirty) revealed that I have not magically become a dominant sprinter and that I am not riding nearly enough (DA’s Strava number are only serving to really bum me out). Bad news for sure, but a bike racer would expect no less.

Friday, October 21

Today was a sprint day, and I dutifully dispatched my 5 sprints around the Ridgewood Duck Pond. My max wattages were: 1040, 1024, 1031, 1011, and 990. I can report these wattages because my Power tap wheel was repaired by the very capable Mark A. at Campmor, my long suffering mechanic. I took my wheel in with a broken spoke and evidently all the nipples on the wheel were about to turn to dust. Mark made my nipples un-dusty (not a euphemism), and now I can report my power data to you.

My ride today was brief one, as I forgot to bring along any water bottles, and I was too lazy to turn around and go home and get them, so I decided to just ride as long as I could without drinking. I now know that I can ride for 40 minutes and 19 seconds before I get thirsty.

Monday, October 24

Regular readers of the Log know that I use the Saddle River Bike Path quite often, it’s an eighteen mile respite from traffic, stop lights and gambling laws (I treat the SRBP as international waters); and because I use it often I have become one of the weekday mid-day regulars on the path. I’ve written about past path compatriots before: the MILF Hunter (who has disappeared), the Frighteningly Skinny Woman (a stalwart in all weather conditions), the Goose Feeder (she’s off and on), and the Reflective Tape Helmet Guy (who seems to have acquired a new helmet, rendering his old nickname obsolete‚ I’m not sure he warrants a new nickname, as his helmet, to me, was the most interesting thing about him.) But now there’s a new character to add to my "Roads Gallery"—Jimmy Blue Bag.

I have named this path regular Jimmy Blue Bag because of his resemblance to a friend of mine named Jim, and the fact that he is constantly portaging things in a blue plastic shopping bag, all while having a constant conversation with himself. He usually wears a look that ranges from disdain to disgust whenever I pass. I’m not sure what it is about me that displeases him. Perhaps it’s my bike costume, my fancy bike, or maybe he doesn’t like power meters—but make no mistake—he’s never glad to see me coming. He’ll usually mutter something unintelligible as I pass, and it used to bother me a bit, but it doesn’t affect me anymore. Jimmy may very well have everything he owns in that bag, or it could be the sum of his day’s earnings, and if he wants to berate a lycra covered clown on a bike worth thousands passing him on the path as he is walking to wherever it is that he goes, I’m fine with that.

Tuesday, October 25

I’m regretting my wasabi peas binge from last night. I woke this morning to find regret and methane were staging a wrestling tournament in the spider hole that is my digestive tract. This state did not lend itself to motivating me to get out and ride my bike, but I did so anyway, as it’s very important to maintain my misplaced belief in myself as a pretend bike racer. This urge is so vital to my imaginary sense of self that I hazarded a digestive disaster on the roads of New Jersey in order to complete a set of 20/10s.

I ventured out and managed to not spread Dan Dung all over New Jersey, but only just so.

Wednesday, October 26

Due to work schedule constraints, I was forced to ride my trainer in the basement today. This is never an optimal way to get hours (or, in this case, minutes) in, but this was my only recourse on a busy day. I rode enough to justify the thousands of dollars worth of equipment that I was plopped upon.

Thursday, October 27 155

Today I had the time to ride, but my coach (I consider God my coach, as he decides whether I ride indoors or not by bringing different sorts of weather) had other plans. I am not as hardy as the local group of commuters here, who, if emails are to be believed, actually rode to work in the early morning in conditions that ranged from "garbage" to "Kang" (inside commuter joke). I sawed away on a 20 minute interval today, and as soon as it was done, I leap off my trainer as if I were sitting on a bucket of Kang (again, inside joke).