Addiction

I’m an addict. This confession is implicit in the name of the blog. I like to think that as addictions go, mine are pretty benign. But “healthy addiction” is probably an oxymoron.

Big news in celebrity gossip is that Jesse James has checked himself into rehab. Tiger did the same thing to deal with his addiction. What I’d like to know, though, is what man isn’t addicted to sex? Jesse and Tiger certainly have problems, but it’s not that they like sex too much. It’s that they have exceptionally poor taste. I mean they’ve respectively forsaken this:

 

For this?

 

Nasty. I hope the therapy they’re getting is to fix their sense of beauty. Because aside from being unbelievably stupid, that’s the only explanation I can come up with for choosing to get anywhere near either of those women without a hazmat suit.

Of course, there’s no accounting for taste when it comes to addiction. Case in point, a recent study suggests that people can become addicted to hostess ding dongs. And it’s not just that they like ding dongs. It’s a full on, chemical-based addiction, just like cocaine. Ding dongs cause a dopamine release. The body likes the dopamine but develops a tolerance to a certain level of ding dong consumption, so the user has to eat more and more ding dongs to get the same high. I’m not making this up.

I used to do a little but a little wouldn't do
So the little got more and more
I just keep tryin' to get a little better
Said the little better than before

Perhaps Dunford double chocolate donuts will take on a street name. Too bad Mr. Brownstone is taken.

I’ve got no problem if people like sweet, fatty foods. I like sweet, fatty foods. I like the stuff Rachel makes better than what comes in a package (and thankfully I’m the one that married her, because it would be a little weird if I were just hanging around in her kitchen waiting for a cookie with her husband watching). But there’s also some tasty stuff in a package. I’ve just learned, out of necessity, because I used to be incredibly fat, to enjoy them in moderation.

I get a little bugged, though, when people think fast food, soda, and candy are harmless, but other things that may be no more addictive are evil. Sure, alcoholism, lung cancer, and drug abuse are all public health issues, but so are type 2 diabetes, obesity, and heart disease. And while nobody I know would consider giving cigarettes to a baby, childhood obesity is a major concern.

Here in Utah, our lawmakers are fond of vice taxes targeting potentially-addictive substances. Just in the last legislative session, a $1 per pack addition to the cigarette tax was passed. The cigarette tax I’m sure was presented as a means of simultaneously discouraging people from smoking and raising money for education—both worthwhile objectives. But if they were really serious about making education a priority and improving public health, we’d see a tax on sugary foods, ice cream, and diet coke. Maybe then we could reduce class sizes and pay our teachers something approaching the type of compensation they deserve.

But then again, the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

Mulligan

One of the advantages to being an old guy (at least in bike racing terms) is that after suffering a beat-down at the hands of a young guy like Tanner on Friday, I always have the option to do the Masters race. This option proved fortuitous this weekend. Twice.

Friday evening I headed back to the criterium venue, where the sun had come out and the course had dried by the time the Masters field rolled out at 6:15. Crits are short enough that I can get away with doing two in one day, which is good, because they’re typically my best shot at getting a good result.

Old guys have lived long enough to realize that making a living is more important than getting a result in a bike race, so they tend to be a bit more civilized than the Cat. 4 field. There are a lot of dentists that race masters, and they know it’s hard to fill a cavity with a broken wrist. And it’s hard to get paid if cavities aren’t getting filled and roots aren’t getting canaled. Masters races mean fewer suicide attacks to cover and fewer sketchy passes—you just have to be prepared for guys who have been racing a long time and who have big motors to set a hard tempo throughout. Since I’m pretty good at sitting in, I like this kind of race.

The biggest motor on Friday evening was teammate Scott K. He was on the front more often than not setting a pace that had 20+ starters down to six or seven contenders by halfway through. With a couple laps to go, Scott attacked solo. Chad from Porcupine went with him, while teammate Nate V. and I sat behind Mike K. from Church of the Big Ring. We weren’t going to chase a teammate but figured we’d try to be there in case he got caught. Mike gave it a good effort, and at one point on the last lap we were within about three bike lengths. But then Mike faded, so I came around to race for third.

Chad looked like he was going to pass Scott K., but suddenly sat up just before the line.

Chad broke his chain in the final straight. Scott took the win, Chad second, me third, Nate V. fourth. My objective was upgrade points, which I got, so I was happy to see Scott get the win and to get some points for myself.

Saturday I was torn between doing the 4/5 race with Steve, trying to place in the overall for the Omnium by racing Masters, and skiing Bonkers with Dug. I chose the 4/5 race. Not sure why. But since it was a day-of decision, I arrived 90 minutes early to register. I waited in line for 85 minutes and was handed a number with just enough time to run to my car and put on my shoes and grab my bike. No warm up. No bathroom break.

Jon J., his brother Paul, and Sam all got shut down entirely. After waiting in line for north of an hour, they were told the field was full and were turned away. Why they combined the 4/5 field is beyond me. Jon came back and raced Masters with me.

Early in the first lap, I rode to the front to try and get everyone to stop for a pee break. Everyone seemed OK with that except Alex W.* from Canyon.

*Kind of a jerk about whom I’d have more to say in private.

The problem with pee breaks is that if one person refuses, it ain’t gonna happen. So I stopped. Alone. I could have tried to marshal teammates for a double assist rolling race pee, but we were going up a bit of a hill, and I’ve never done one of those before, so I figured I’d just stop and try to chase back on.

 

Awesome graphic courtesy of Alex. The way cool Alex, not to be confused with the not even slightly cool Alex W. from Canyon.

I did my business at the side of the road. It took a while. You’d think it was the end of happy hour rather than the beginning of a bike race there was so much of it.

I jumped back on the bike and chased. Eventually I made my way up to the main field and tucked in at the back to catch my breath. It was a short-lived respite, as I realized a gap had opened up and the front of the field was riding away. I got into no-man’s land and chased, but they crested the hill and started descending before I could catch on. I caught a few guys, a few guys caught us, and eventually we had a real chase group. But I could tell it was doomed. Then I started having an asthma attack. So when we got to the start/finish area, I stopped and told the officials I was withdrawing. Being an old guy, I knew I could save it for the Masters race later in the day.

That lead group pretty much stayed together most of the race. a few guys fell off on the hills, Alex W.’s request notwithstanding. With all the charm he could muster, he exhorted the field with the following: “all you pussies who didn’t do the hill climb this morning better not attack on this climb.” He’s a veritable Dale Carnegie. He survived the first climb but got dropped on the second lap because while intimidation can be a tactic in bicycle races, it can’t be your only tactic if you expect to do well.

After a big pileup (remember what I said about Masters?), there were 15 to 20 guys left in the lead. There are three turns in the last kilometer, and as they approached the first of these, Steve asked teammate Scott P. if he still had a kick. Scott has a great kick and told Steve to just get him to the second turn, and he’d do the rest. Steve attacked after turn one, Scott came around in turn two, coasted through the final turn, and then punched it for the final 200 meters, with nobody even close to him at the end. It was a great display of teamwork and a nice result for Revolution/Cafe Rio.

Later that afternoon in the Masters race, Revolution was again well-represented. I was hoping for some upgrade points and also wanted to see Scott K. get a good enough result to take the overall. Scott is such a strong rider that all I needed to do was cover the counter-attack when he made a move.

On the second lap someone launched a solo attack. We let him go, but on the hill the pace increased, and it was full-on chase mode. The field blew up. At the top, Scott said “we’ve got five, if we work together we can stay away.”

I was not happy. I’m a lazy bike racer and would rather sit in and surge at the end or at least wait until the final climb than have to do work for the entire race. And staying away/keeping it together in a breakaway requires a lot of work—you’re trying not to get caught by the chasers, and you’re trying to keep one of your own from going off solo, so it’s basically hammer down for the duration.

We soon caught the leader, and then before the end of the second lap, Lotoja hero Mark T. and another racer caught us. We were now eight.

Going up the final climb, Bo P. went off the front. I couldn’t answer. If anyone else could, they didn’t want to, so we let him go and figured we’d chase him on the descent. One of the eight fell off, so it was six chasing one.

With 5K to go, we all realized that we were racing for second. Putting in the effort to chase Bo would certainly cost you at least one place in the end. Scott didn’t need the win to take the overall, so I didn’t need to sacrifice my race to be a good teammate. Besides, both quads were cramping at this point, so I couldn’t have done much good anyhow.

With three turns to go, Scott attacked. I waited for the counter and got on that wheel. Scott had gapped us enough that he’d get second. I just sat in until the final corner and then sprinted to take third. I was happy for the result, but even more happy to have the race over. Perhaps it’s just an early season lack of fitness, but I don’t think I’ve every worked at that intensity for that long in a bike race. Every match was burned.

Steve, on the other hand, was spotted riding up the south side of Suncrest Sunday afternoon.

Physics

I am fascinated by physics. I know next to nothing about physics, but I am no less fascinated by it for that.

One aspect of physics I do understand, particularly as it pertains to bicycle racing, is that the same force applied to a lower mass will result in faster acceleration. That’s why lightweight guys can climb better.

So yesterday when I was on a mellow lunch ride with Daren, he tells me that Tanner (his son) has been in the lab getting his power output tested. Tanner’s threshold power output is a little more than mine. And he weighs 20 pounds less. But I already knew that Tanner was a way faster climber than I am.

What I was afraid to admit was that this similar power applied to less mass principle was relevant for crit racing. This afternoon’s criterium made me painfully aware of just how relevant this principle is. The course had lots of turns, which meant lots of slowing down and speeding up.

I was right behind Tanner for most of the race. He patiently sat in until about three laps to go. That’s when I felt the full effect of my extra 20 pounds. Tanner attacked the lead group, and I couldn’t match the acceleration. Neither could anyone else.

Racing in the snow sucks.

By the last lap, I could see Tanner coming into the final turn while I had three turns to go. He was so far off the front that I thought it was someone in similar kit who had been lapped. Apparently so did the chief commissaire, because she whistled and tried to pull him from the course. He kept going for the win.

Tanner is a high school kid. Literally speaking, he was a boy among men at this race. It felt the other way around. He put the hurt on some very good crit racers and won in the most manly way possible—a solo breakaway. Strong work, my friend.

Triceps

In gyms and basements all around the world today, countless men and not a few women are slaving away doing rep after rep with dumbbells, barbells, machines, and even a bowflex or two (though most of the bowflexes are likely gathering dust while the owner eats a burrito). Their objective: add bulk to their triceps. And pecs, and lats, and traps, and biceps. A few of them are even going so far as to stick needles in their butts, taking years from their lives for the sake of adding millimeters to one of the too-sexy-for-my-shirt muscle group.

I wish I could give them some of mine. I would gladly shed 30% of the mass in each of my triceps, biceps, deltoids, and pectoral muscles. I haven’t done so much as a single pushup for two years in hopes that by neglecting them, these muscles will go away. Well, I don’t really want them to entirely go away. But I would like them to shrink. Substantially.

They do me no good on the bike. They do me no good while skiing. All they do is make it so I’m effectively hauling a chuck, a brisket, a rump roast, a shank, and a flank up the hill every time I climb, which is a lot. I live on top of a mountain, for crying out loud. If I go anywhere on my bike, I climb 1500 feet just to get back home.

This morning I weighed 163.8 pounds. And while for me that’s a reasonable weight for the start of the season—especially since it’s nearly ten pounds lighter than I was this time last year—it’s still nearly seven pounds more than where I finished last season and ten+ pounds more than where I should be if I’m going to be competitive at the big climbing races like High Uintas and Tour of Park City.

So let’s figure out where to trim the fat.

Inside the orange circle is my double chin, part of the chuck. If I can lay off the brownies, that should disappear.

What’s inside the red oval is like keeping a flank steak or two stuffed in my bibs every time I ride. I’ll blame the Saturday evening date nights and the Sunday morning waffles for that one. Problem is, I like taking my wife out on the weekends. And I like making waffles for the kids on Sunday mornings. Especially when they (waffles, not kids) have nutella on them. You see my dilemma?

The purple oval is where the rump roast hangs out. I’d be OK with this one if the others went away since that area is responsible for putting power to the pedals and can actually be helpful. I could keep it lean by giving up bread. But have you tried my wife’s bread?

The toughest problem is the yellow oval—the brisket and shank. Does any cyclist need that much flesh around his shoulders? OK, maybe Chris Hoy does. And I’d love to be like Chris Hoy, ‘cept we don’t have a velodrome around here. We have a bunch of steep mountain roads instead.

 

Look at the green circle—I don’t know that guy, but he’s a typical cyclist in my category. He seems to do just fine with normal arms. You’d think mine would get that way after years of neglect, but they don’t. I fear that even if I ate nothing but cabbage*, they’d stay pretty much the same.

*For the record, I love cabbage. Problem is that I love it shredded on fish tacos or in posole or covered in mayonnaise in cole slaw.

Think I’m exaggerating? Well those aren’t arm warmers I have on in the photo. They’re knee warmers. I’m just wearing them on my arms because that’s where they fit. Size? L/XL. Now do you believe me?

Dangling

Last spring, the first time Steve and I did a real ride together, we climbed up the south side of Suncrest. I was able to hang with him all the way up (he may have let me), and then when we pushed it at the top, I managed to pull away. As the season progressed, we traded blows, but he had the advantage more often than not—especially when it counted—dropping me en route to wins at Little Mountain and Tour of Park City, and a runner up at Lotoja. I outpaced him at Leadville, but he doesn’t even own a mountain bike, so I’m not sure if that one counts.

We’ll see if it’s even close this season. Yesterday we pre-rode the course for the Bikes 4 Kids circuit race, which includes a four mile climb from Daybreak to the entrance of Kennecott. He was at the top—relaxed and with his foot on the ground—by the time I got there. I can’t be certain, but he may have prepared and eaten a peanut butter sandwich while he waited.

For now, I’m going to pretend that I was just having a bad day. I’m going to pretend that since Steve loses weight in winter but gains it during cycling season while I do the opposite, that these things will balance out. I’m going to pretend that things could shake out differently in an actual race environment, even though I know that on race day Steve summons the Eye of the Tiger better than any racer I’ve competed against. In other words, I’m going to delude myself into thinking that the starving, suffering, and sweating I’m just starting to endure will eventually bear fruit.

After yesterday’s ride, I came home and watched coverage of Milan San Remo. I saw Cavendish suffer as he dangled at the back on the Cipressa climb before the final thread snapped and he knew he wouldn’t catch back on. I like to think that I know that feeling. I’m just hoping I also come to experience the feeling of redemption he had to have had today when he took the stage at Catalunya.

Yes, I realize that it’s exceptionally lame to compare one’s self with a professional athlete, especially one of Mark Cavendish’s caliber. I can’t help it. Cavendish gets dropped on a lot of climbs. I can relate to that. He also wins a lot. That gives me hope. And if we don’t have elusive hope, what have we got?

Finding my race legs

Saturday was my first race of the season. It almost didn’t happen. Twice. Once because Dug tried to convince me to ski the Coalpit Headwall, which in hindsight I would not have regretted. At all. And once because I tore my tire open riding out to the racecourse. But I booted the tire and had Rachel meet me at RMR with my other wheels.

When I race the practice crits at RMR, I have three objectives. In order of priority they are:

1. Don’t crash
2. Get a race-intensity workout
3. Get a good result, either for myself or by helping a teammate

In those terms, the event was a success. Despite two crashes right in front of me in the final corner, I managed to stay upright. Steve, teammate Will, and I got on the front to drive the pace for two of the last three laps, so we got our intensity. Even though we should have got on the front later in the race to provide a solid leadout, Mike H. still managed to finish second, so we got a good result as a team.

(Photo credit: Cathy Fegan-Kim)

The Revolution/Cafe Rio team has good numbers in the B flight, and we have some strong motors. If we can get our tactics dialed, I think we’ll have some successful races.

My first real race of the season is this weekend. Keeping my fingers crossed that skiing has provided sufficient winter training.

An open letter to the guy whose car I spit on earlier this week

I realize you think I’m the biggest jerk in the world. And while it’s possible that you’re right, please also consider that riding a bike down Foothill Blvd is a scary and sometimes life-threatening experience.

Consider this:

• There is no bike lane
• There is no shoulder
• The only place to ride is in the vehicle lane
• Douchebags like Tony Kornheiser encourage drivers to run cyclists off the road, so that possibility is always in the back of my mind
• I move about 20-25 mph on a bike
• Motor vehicle traffic is moving at about 30 mph
• That speed differential is just enough to annoy most drivers such that they won’t wait for me

Which is apparently what was going through your mind, because I was trying to take the right lane all to myself when you pulled in next to me. In my lane. And then you started moving to the right. And I had no place to go but the gutter.

When you finally got around me, your rear bumper was about 18 inches from my front wheel. You may have thought that was plenty of room, but please consider that you were wrapped with two tons of steel, while I was wrapped in a layer of fabric thinner than my underwear. We might therefore have understandably had a difference of opinion regarding what constitutes a safe distance.

I will also concede that my anger at you was likely fueled by the driver of the utility truck in Emigration Canyon who—even though there was no oncoming traffic, no blind corner, I was safely in the bike lane, and he could have given me at least three feet as he passed—buzzed me as close to my left shoulder as he could without being charged with at least attempted vehicular manslaughter. I was still fuming over this when we met.

Here’s the thing, though. The fact that I caught up with you enough to successfully spit on your car indicates that just pulling into the lane behind me rather than forcing me to share it with you would not have delayed you meaningfully, if at all. I understand you’re angry with me. Justifiably. But it would never have happened had you been a bit more patient.

When you chased me down and nearly ran me off the road a second time, I was not surprised. When you yelled at me and called me all sorts of embarrassing names, I didn’t yell back. I just tried to explain why I was upset. I could understand why you were. The difference, however, is that I was upset for having been scared for my life, while you were upset about having to do 15 seconds worth of cleaning.

I’m embarrassed that it came to that. My actions were unjustified. I’m embarrassed for my teammate that was riding with me. He shouldn’t have been subjected to such a scene. I apologize, and I regret that the situation even happened. Especially, I regret that as I spat upon your driver’s side window, the window happened to be open.