This winter has seen me struggle with my weight. Of course, I’m talking about bike racer weight gain as opposed to normal American weight gain (according to the Discovery Channel and the Biggest Loser, normal Americans don’t take notice of any weight gain until they discover that they can no longer leave their home without the aid of a Sawzall and a fork lift). Bike racer weight gain is a much smaller proportion, but in the cycling world of grams and power to weight ratios, any gain is something to take notice of because it will make you slower, and because we wear sausage casing tight clothing on a daily basis.

If I am to be honest, I’ve always reveled in being an outlier when it comes to weight. My relatively (when compared to most Americans, Frenchmen are a different story) emaciated frame has become part of who I am, namely someone who many think is either ill or on a cucumber and water diet enema diet. But that has never been the case, I only use turpentine enemas. In fact, I’ve always been a bit careless about what I eat. To me, eating whatever I please has always been one of the rewards of being a bike racer, because, let’s be honest, there aren’t many other rewards. Because of the bike, I’ve always been able to eat anything—I could always just ride it off. But this season is different, I don’t seem to have the ability to burn off extra weight through exercise alone. Age has slowed my metabolism and I fear I will have to resort to the loathsome prospect of dietary discipline.

I’m reluctant to do this because, my diet is one of the last areas of my life that hasn’t been shoved under the shade of cycling’s cloud of compulsion. My eating  wasn’t controlled by bikes, and I liked that. Other areas of my life, sleep, digestion, body shaving—these were all under cycling’s strict authority, but I was never the guy who told people about the dangers of whey or the perils of pasta. I could have a doughnut and not feel guilty. I could have beer and feel fine (I could have multiple beers and feel even finer). I could eat with normal people and not blow my cover as a bike obsessed cretin.

Now I must turn to the dark side and watch what I eat. I may even have to go as far as adopting an eating theory, maybe I’ll eschew carbs, perhaps I’ll throw everything I eat into a juicer, maybe I’ll only eat meal that fit onto one spoon. The fact is that I really don’t have a plan yet, I just know that I have to take action. And yes, I realize that the preceding paragraphs make me sound like an unhinged manorexic, and my weight this week is in my goal range, but that’s only because I’ve been very careful about what I eat. I’m being responsible, and I find it very unsatisfying.

Friday, January 21, 2011

I’m writing this posting retroactively because at the time, I couldn’t recall anything to say about riding my bike in my basement yet again, but I have data on my computer that does prove that I indeed did ride in my basement for 58 minutes and 24 seconds. I cannot recall even one of those seconds. I think I may be zombie riding now, if I mention a desire to try a triathlon soon, you are under strict instructions to kill me, as I will have gone "full zombie".

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Today I rose early to take to my basement for a pre-dawn trainer ride, combining one thing I have come to despise (riding a trainer) and another thing I have never really cared for (training in the morning). Of course, most New York City races are held early enough to anger sleeping roosters (note I didn’t use the olde tyme term "cock" for rooster, that would be far too crass for a writer such as myself), but that’s a necessity born out of the fact of cycling’s relative unpopularity in the city. We have to race at 6am, lest anyone see us and fling themselves into the path of a speeding pack of cyclists. To me it seems like we are coddling our pedestrians when we do this, but I don’t make the laws, and everyone should be glad for that, as the penalties for wearing Henley shirts would seen draconian.

But I digress. I am up and writing this entry on my trainer because writing (this is considered writing) is another activity that I am finding less and less time for. Work and family life take precedent, and taking notes on my pretend bike racing career sits just below "keeping up with Betty White" on my to-do list. (That’s an exaggeration of course, no one needs to keep up with Betty White, that woman is everywhere, she’s at my house right now and I couldn’t care less.)

I am riding at this early hour simply because it’s the only time I can, and all of this tapping of letters is bogging down my mightiness, so I bid you farewell and pray I don’t wake Betty upstairs—she always wants to talk but every time we do, she just craps all over Bea Arthur, and I will NOT stand for that.

Monday, January 24, 2011

I’ve asserted before that since the weather often dictates which sort of workout I will do, I am coached by God, who, according to Fox News, brings the weather. I fear that my coach is cross with me because the weather of late has been quite belligerent towards bike riding. So like Abraham (little known fact—Abraham was a tenacious sprinter) before me, I may be forced to offer a sacrifice to get the weather back on track.

Naturally, I won’t be suckered into offering up a child like Abraham (not only is my coach omnipotent, apparently he’s also a practical joker); I’m thinking my offering will be a little more practical. Therefore I’m proposing to my coach the following bribe to make the weather better—from now on, I will dedicate all my training time to thinking about anything but training. Hopefully, that will get the weather back into shape.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Yesterday’s offering to my coach seems to have backfired. I awoke this morning not to sun and clear roads, but to a steady snow falling, thwarting any hopes of riding outdoors. I am left to conclude that my coach was either nonplussed by my efforts, or that he desire I take up skiing. Either way, I’m riding my trainer indoors again. In order to keeps things interesting (or, more accurately, not suicidally boring), I’m going to do some 20/10s today; because nothing splits up some monotonous pedaling indoors like pedaling indoors at a different pace.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Today is the first day I attempt to dreaded "double". Which is a very obvious way of saying that I do two workouts in one day. I need to start piling up more minutes, and one of the most effective ways to do this is to do two rides in one day. I’m tempted to say that the hours spent off the bike in between should count as riding time also, as the dread I feel between them undoubtedly raises my heart rate, but I will only count the minutes I spend on the bike here in my log as I can’t be bothered to wear my heart rate strap around the house, no matter how sexy it looks.

This endeavor does takes some motivation, as it requires getting up early to ride (and the loathing of that activity noted above), so I plowed through my early morning ride in a fog of resentment and routine. But this is required if one is to mighty later in the season, and in my muddled mind I turned to motivating myself with ridiculous platitudes that people who don’t cannot compose thoughts of their own use. I referenced banalities like: "quitters never win, winners never quit", "the proof’s in the pudding", "it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog", and "if you don’t keep riding, your ass will be bigger than Mihael’s". That last one really got me going and helped to spirit me through my morning’s drudgery. 

Thursday, January 27, 2011

After yesterday’s double workout, today was scheduled to be less duplicitous day, training session-wise; but my coach had other plans for me today. Today did end up being a double workout day because my morning was spent shoveling around the sky droppings of a coach who felt that I needed to work out my upper body. I must admit that though I am an admitted shovel junkie, even I am tiring of the constant dumping the area is finding itself beneath. This steady flow of frozen precipitation is forcing my athletic strivings underground, and turning my days into repetitious episodes of waking, working, riding, parenting and sleeping (with gassiness).

These snowfalls have also forced me to acquire something that no bike racer aspires to—upper body strength. Upper body strength for a racer is as useless as a professional Quidditch league. Extra muscle "up top" only means that you have extra body meat to lug around during races—extra lugging is tiring, and therefore slow. Preferably racers have the upper body build of Brownie Scouts, with arms reminiscent of flamingo legs. All of this shoveling is building slowness into my frame. It’s very distressing. In response, I completed two twenty minute intervals in the hope of shrinking my upper body back down to a size that resembles a Brownie Scout with flamingo leg arms sticking out of her vest, a look that is more, you know, normal.