I’ve just realized that I’ve neglected to mention anything about training in the preambles to my last two training logs. I’ve written about myself (shocker) and our dog, but I have yet to share my theories about training. As a caveat I should mention that I am the reigning champion in the 3/4 field at the Tuesday Night races at Floyd Bennett Field, and as such all of my advice holds special gravitas. I am now a winner—I have a piece of clothing that proves it.

My advice is mostly for the aged racers out there—as I don’t really remember what it was like to be young. Young people don’t need to train anyway, they just need to avoid late nights, excessive alcohol consumption and tiring dance steps; basically all the things that make being young worthwhile. Older racers on the other hand, need to be diligent about their training. Training for the aged isn’t so much about achieving gains as it is about limiting losses. After the age of 25 or so, the body starts its decline. For some (like Lindsay Lohan) this decline can be fast and severe, but for others it can be slowed considerably. The goal of any older racer is to try and make the body’s sprint towards the grave into more of a mosey. It’s a battle, as one of the great ironies of life is that as we get older the only thing we really get any better at is aging.

I have found some strategies and items that help keep decrepitude at bay. Firstly, I recommend vodka as a recovery aid, take it daily as it aids in keeping alive the delusion that you are a bike racer and that anyone actually cares about you grunting your way through public parks in New York City at the crack of dawn. Secondly, the glands that allow young people do things like stay up all night and tolerate dance music dry up with age, and are slowly replaced with glands that secrete with sensibility and crotchetiness. The way to counteract this is to take vitamins, because they fill your glands with magical bits of rock and dirt taken from the earth. Personally, I use the dirt concoction called Optygen to keep my dancing glands peppy. Finally, old people have to rest. We get tired very easily, and need to rest on benches whenever possible. I have found that support hose (known in the bike world as "compression socks") make resting much more comfortable and competitive at the same time. I bet I can rest much better than you can, as I have purchased socks made especially for that purpose.

And that’s it in a nutshell, vodka, vitamins, and support hose. If I were more clever I would come up with a dynamic name like "The Winner’s Regime™" or "The Path to Unslowitude™", but I am not that clever, and I do not want to be anyone’s coach. In fact, I really shouldn’t be posting my valuable training information online—I should be posting a complicated charade of misinformation—so I can beat all of you. Dammit. Forget all of what I’ve said above, except for the vodka stuff, actually double down on the vodka part.

Friday October 8, 2010

You move to the offspring incubator known as the suburbs for the stability (and the Wednesday gladiator matches, but I’m not supposed to tell you about that), but oftentimes that sweet stability can turn into a tedious monotony. It’s a challenge and different people deal with the tiresome routine in different ways. Some turn to sports like golf, skeet shooting or—if they really like free t-shirts and riding bikes with a soggy crotch—triathlons to give their lives an added layer of excitement and meaning. Others broaden their lives with travel or with classes at community colleges or penitentiaries—homemade shivs are rumored to be the next big thing, supplanting pet hair pashminas as the craft of choice among trendsetters.

I though, choose a different way to escape the well worn rut of suburban monotony. I walk my dog. There’s something about braving the weather of the early morning and late evening that makes me feel like a rugged outdoorsman. I enjoy putting on my gear to head outside and I get a feeling of satisfaction in knowing that I can brave almost anything nature (at least suburban nature) throws at me. Of course, my outings into the terrifically temperate climate of Northern New Jersey would open me to ridicule and hazing if I were to discuss them with Edmund Hillary (and those taunts would be especially terrifying, as they could only come from Hillary’s ghost), but I enjoy seeing my neighborhood at a slower (in Happy’s case, waaay slower) pace. It allows me time to enjoy being outside and gives me time to really peer into my neighbor’s windows—and I can say there are some terrible wallpaper choices going on around here. But alas, these jaunts too must end, and I return to my home to face the suburban grind with a renewed optimism and a bag full of poop.

Sunday October 10, 2010

As I am old, I have become a morning person. Mind you, it wasn’t my preference or even my decision really (it was a combination of first joining the 9 to 5 workforce and then having children), but there’s no denying the fact that I am now a de facto morning person. I will not think twice about meeting to ride at 7:30, in fact, I will complain about not meeting earlier, as it would get me back home sooner. My younger teammates cannot fathom this sort of early scheduling, but it’s a fact of life for us older guys, like growing tufts of hair out of our ears and developing a fixation for programming on the History Channel.

On Sunday, I met up with other like-minded early birds, and we formed a flock of four. Matt, David, Christopher and I gathered at the NJ side of the GWB (the Capistrano for morning bike birds), and set forth to cycle to the state line and beyond. We spent an amicable two hours together, and Christopher showed us an alternative to climbing up state line road on 9w which went through the Columbia campus where they study bits of rock and dirt. I talked almost non-stop, but all of my fellow flyers were polite enough to not shove me into the ditches (and yes, I’m so Midwestern I think New Jersey has ditches) of New Jersey. And any ride that doesn’t end in a ditch is a successful one in my book.

Monday October 11, 2010

I broke a spoke on my PowerTap wheel yesterday, forcing me to resort to using my Zipp 101s—which area set of delightful wheels. Riding on them, my bike felt faster, lighter and smoother, making me wonder why I bother with my PowerTap wheel at all. I eagerly await the day when Jonathan Vaugthers develops the Metrigear pedals into a viable power measurement device at Garmin (I assume that JV does all the R&D at Garmin, while "dressing down" and wearing an argyle lab coat with an asbestos ascot.), freeing me from the tyranny of hub-based power measurement.

But mostly I really want a pedal based power measurement system because it will allow my to be slutty with my wheel choices. I understand that Polar allegedly has a pedal based system in the works already (they had one attached to a box at Interbike), but I’m wary of their power measurement devices, as their past forays into the "wattage cottage" have been about as effective as tissue-paper convertible tops or paper mache trestle bridges. In the meantime, I will wait to find out if their pedal system is effective or not and hope that professor Vaugthers can get something in the works before his asbestos ascot rots right through his neck.

And since I was using my 101s today, I have no power numbers, Additionally, my speed and distance are comically inaccurate—my average speed was closer to 34 mph, not the 32 mph recorded below. I also saw one of the members of the New York racing community out on the Saddle River Bike Path, and he was—running. Doctor Vaughters is out there risking his neck (literally) and you go running? Preposterous!

Tuesday October 12, 2010

Today was another day to ride on my 101s and delight in their efficacy. They are a fine set of wheels, but if I am to find fault, it would be in the fact that the rear hub, when coasting, is very loud. And not just normal hub loud but more like "I’ve hooked a marlin and the reel is starting to smoke" loud. I’ve come to appreciate having my "wailing wheel" though. I especially enjoy coasting around people on the Saddle River Bike Path and having them crane their heads upwards to see if there’s a swarm of metal bees about to descend upon them. It’s a guilty pleasure. This must be how the guys on loud motorcycles feel with their loud pipes that they claim are for safety (so they can be heard by motorists) but most likely are for attention (look at me, I have a leather coat on!) and genital dimensional deceit (the most likely scenario). And since I was powerless, my training numbers are again a farce.

Wednesday October 13, 2010

I’m not sure if it was the fact that today was the thirteenth or if there was a mantle of mayhem plopped over Northern New Jersey, but there were definitely odd things going on. Firstly, I got about 3 hours of sleep last night due to the fact that I had to spend the evening scooping up yarn-filled dog vomit and then spooning with the aforementioned retching canine on the couch. I took to the roads in a poorly rested state hoping to spin the experience from my mind. I had nearly evacuated the past evening’s escapades from my memory when I was confronted by a large SUV-type vehicle pulling out right on front of me. The driver was busy talking on the phone, and the stream of "sailor words" (sorry, elderly woman walking her dog) I was tossing at him seemed to have no effect, so I put my power sliding skillz to use and drifted behind the be-engined behemoth. The chatty captain of the land schooner simply drove off and went about his day, seemingly unaware of the display of skillz that he brought forth. Which is too bad because I really did pull off a sweet power slide. All of this makes me wonder, if a power slide happens in the suburbs and no one’s there to see it, did it actually happen?

Thursday October 14, 2010

Today I really didn’t feel like riding in any way whatsoever. It was a grey gloomy day here in New Jersey and I was not feeling like my normally motivated self. But I am trying to stave off decrepitude, so I rode my bike. It was a spite filled hour and two minutes.