Professional Cyclist Returns Clean Blood Sample!

Today, I have some great news, some good news, and some more good news.

Great News

About two years ago, my wife found out she had breast cancer. About a year ago, she finished up her treatment: surgery and chemo. Yesterday afternoon, she got back the results of her 1-year followup appointment.

She’s clean!

Of course, she’s still high risk for the next four years or so, but decreasingly so. I hate to say we’re out of the woods, but it sure feels like it.

Huzzah!

Good News

My wife’s actually feeling a little under the weather today, so I took the day off for her to rest and recover, and for me to play with the kids.

Later this afternoon, she’ll probably go to see the new Sense and Sensibility movie with a friend.

Why is this good news? Well, since I’ll be watching the kids, I don’t have to go see Sense and Sensibility, of course: I get brownie points for being a good husband and  I get to avoid a movie I desperately want to not see.

More Good News

The only thing is, I’m not going to have time to write the Fat Cyclist entry I had planned for today. Luckily, yesterday Dug sent me an email talking about finding out what his wattage output is. I think that most cyclists — and especially anyone who has read Lance Armstrong’s War (recommended, by the way) — have wondered what their wattage is, so I was interested in what the test was like.

Plus, Dug’s a good writer, in spite of his churlish nature. And when I asked him nicely, he even cleaned it up, adding proper capitalization and punctuation.

Take it away, Dug.

Wattage Testing For Dorks

When Lance Armstrong won the Alpe de Huez time trial a few years ago, he maintained a sustained wattage output of over 400 watts, for something like 32 minutes. The rest of the top 20 in the elite pro peloton average about 10 percent less. I only mention this as a way of pointing out that you and I both suck. It doesn’t matter how much better than me you are, or how much better than you I am. Comparatively speaking, we all suck. But sometimes we forget. Well, I do anyway.

Last night, I was forcibly reminded.

My wife signed us up for a 4 month winter spin class at her gym. I’ve never been one for structured classes or exercise, but this was something we could do together, and would help me maintain some fitness through the winter. Plus, she has just finished some kind of personal trainer workout/eating program, and she is taking great delight in the fact that her body fat percentage is lower than mine. So I agreed to this spin class, knowing they’d test us for wattage, and I’d be able to lord my wattage numbers over her.

I’m pathetic.

I hate tests. When they made me swim a mile at scout camp, they had to throw me in the lake and guard the dock so I wouldn’t get out of the water; I did the sidestroke, just so they’d have to stand there for entire two hours while I swam. But this wattage test was also something I could email to Fatty, and tell him I had more voltage — or ohms, or amperes, or whatever — than he has.

State of the Art Facility

Kim and I went to the trainer’s house for the test: me with my Cannondale RX2000, Kim with a friend’s Bianchi Pantani special, and our new heart rate monitors (still in the box). They oooh’d and aaaah’d over the Bianchi…until they realized it was borrowed. And too big for Kim. They took Kim downstairs, and put me in the laundry room. They had a trainer set up (next to the dirty clothes hamper), hooked to a laptop (which was resting on the Maytag washing machine).

Really elegant, very professional.

Coach put my bike in the stand, hooked a backup heart rate monitor to my earlobe, and told me to warm up. While I was spinning, he asked if I’d done any racing lately, and I told him I’d done the Snowbird hillclimb in September. Based on my finish time, he guessed I could do about 290 watts. I had no reference for this number, except Lance Armstrong’s numbers on Alpe de Huez, which didn’t really make me feel good.

All Is Vanity

I got set up in the right gear, big ring, about 5 down in the back, and coach told me to spin at 16mph (the laptop on his washing machine in front of me gave the speed). I found myself trying to control the mph minutely, embarrassingly trying to impress the coach with my ability to spin at the exact speed he wanted, and I also attempted to keep my heart rate really low, and still maintain the pace.

He paid no attention at all.

Every 60 seconds, he told me to increase my speed by .5 mph, and would periodically ask me to rate my perceived exertion, which I faked as “very comfortable” every time.

At around 21mph, I found myself looking around for a place to blow my nose. On a typical ride in the canyon, I think I expel several quarts of mucous, but I wasn’t ready to foul his laundry room — yet. Clearl, he had been waiting for this, since he immediately handed me a tissue. I guess all cyclists are alike in this regard.

The Test

When we got to 25mph, I was starting to breathe pretty heavily, and was losing my form on the bike, bobbing and weaving like a dork, my heart rate up around 185. In other words, pretty standard for me. He had me pedal at 25mph for about a minute, and just as I was prepping to up the pace to 25.5mph, he told me to gear down and cool off. I protested that I still had plenty in the tank, that I could go longer, faster. He just smiled, and said, “I’ve done thousands of these, believe me, you’re done.”

“But I haven’t even gotten out of the saddle yet, I can go faster,” I pleaded.

That’s when he explained that he was measuring maximum sustained output, not just maximum output. What you can do for about 15 seconds in a sprint isn’t the kind of fitness being measured in the wattage test. It’s what you can do over a long climb — or into a headwind — that counts.

I felt a little let down, since I’d expected to go so hard I would throw up and fall off the trainer, and need to be resuscitated. I expected drama. I expected to really show how I could push myself into dangerous territory. This was all so…genteel.

Or as genteel as it could be in a laundry room.

For My Next Feat of Strength, I Shall Challenge My Kids to an Arm Wrestling Match

But I got the payoff. Kim came upstairs, and the woman with her was gushing about how well she did (Kim’s never ridden a road bike before: only mountain biking, recreationally), and how great she looked. “Yeah, but what was your wattage?” I asked.

“175. What’s yours?”

“287.” (I snickered, but only to myself—I’m not completely insane.)

“That’s great,” Kim said with a yawn. “Hey, can we get going? I’m a little light-headed; I did the test without using my asthma medication.”

I swear, I could have done 295. I swear.

I learned a lot from the comments posted yesterday. Specifically, I learned that:

• Of all the places in the world from which a bike can be stolen, a bike rack seems to be the least common.
• If you steal a bike, the bike will do its utmost to kill you and return to its rightful owner.
• You people get distressed over the loss of a bike in much the same way most people get distressed over the loss of a beloved friend. Which makes total sense to me, by the way.

Truthfully, yesterday’s comments on bike theft were uniformly outstanding. Except BotchedExperiment’s, who needs a little work on his begging skills. So, while I can only give a messenger bag to one person, I’d like to hand out several honorable mentions, which are as heartfelt as they are non-negotiable.

Grand Prize

The Banjo Brothers Messenger Bag winner is Al Maviva, with his story of theft, rage, revenge, triumph, and a bunch of crying.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a 10-Year-Old Who Has Just Had His Bike Stolen

When I was a little kid, 10 years old or so, we lived in a semi-rural area on a road that was bordered by forest and corn fields. A lot of teenagers would drive up our road, park and get stoned. We weren’t supposed to ride on the road.

One day I was out with one of my sisters, who was about 7, tooling around on the road on my little red and white Schwinn with coaster brakes and 16” hard rubber tires. This green stationwagon with about 5 teenagers in it pulled up, and a couple kids got out while two or three stayed in the car. One kid blocked my forward progress, and the other knocked me off my bike and then rode away.

My sister started crying and screaming, I started crying and screaming, and I was pissed and scared and totally freaking out, in an enormous hysterical rage. Taking isn’t nice, I guess.

Just then, I noticed these big rocks about the size of bread loaves or a little larger just off the side of the road, adjacent to the cornfield. In a total Hulk fit, I hoisted a good sized rock and threw it — soccer throw-in style — over my head with two hands, onto the hood of the car. It bounced across the hood leaving a basketball-sized dent and some scratches.

The two or three teens in the car started freaking out. While they discussed the situation and shouted to their bike thief friend, I kept screaming and crying, and I hoisted another big rock and heaved it, putting another huge dent in the hood.

The teens were shouting at each other. Meanwhile, I hoisted this enormous rock that was almost too big for me to lift. I was still crying and screaming and blubbering, “I hate you I’m gonna tell on you I hate you,” and so forth.

I staggered over to the car holding the enormous rock, getting ready to take out the windshield. The kid driving the car gets out of the car and I noticed he’s crying. “This is my father’s car! He’s going to kill me! Stop! Please! Stop!” So I blubber, “Gimme my bike back,” and stood there with the rock over my head, basically holding the windshield hostage.

The thief finally saw what was happening, and started riding back to the car. I backed off a couple steps, the teenagers started getting into the car and yelling to the thief, “That little kid is &%$@ing crazy, give him back his bike.” The thief threw the bike past me into the field and jumped into the car, and they peeled away, and I eventually dropped the big rock.

When I finally stopped crying and freaking out and hyperventilating, my sister and I agreed to never speak of this to our parents.

Honorable Mentions

There were lots of good stories, and the only reason I’m not including more of them is because at some point it’d just start to look like all I did today is copy and paste the comments section from yesterday’s post.

Which I guess is what I did, but I’m also adding this clever introduction, not to mention witty award titles. Hey, cut me a little slack, would you?

The "I Had No Idea My Brother-in-Law Is So Bizarre" Award

I have this riding friend who, in an effort to upgrade his lackluster skills, upgraded his lackluster bike. Actually, he bought the Specialized S-Works Enduro in 2003—the whiz-bang super cool anodized one with the Talas fork and the "itch-switch™." Price tag: $5,300.

Geez, it was a nice bike. And geez, he wouldn’t stop yacking about it. So, when he went on vacation for a week, leaving said bike alone at home, I slinked into his garage (actually, I had the super skinny 9 year-old slide under the cat-sized opening for…well…the cat, in the garage door) and I stole the bike.

After he returned, I had it in my home for three days before he noticed that it was gone, and before he noticed the ransom note taped to his front door, replete with disturbing photographs of the bike, bound and gagged with me cleverly disguised as a terrorist with a hacksaw preparing to lop off some critical parts.

The ransom demands were simple: A block of sharp cheddar cheese, a Metallica CD, a copy Mein Kampf, and $25. He thought that I was kidding—obstinate fool. He held out for a week until he realized I was serious. He delivered the goods, all but the block of cheese.

"No bike, monkey boy—not until ALL of the demands have been met."

Later that day I ate cheese, had a good read [editor's note: ?!?!] , and some head bangin,’ whilst he got re-acquainted with his now-tainted aluminum buddy.

—Rocky

Award for Most Secure Bike Ever

I have never had a bike stolen, but I have a good reason why. I put my bike in the company bike rack like everyone else, and I don’t even lock it up. However, I do sit about fifteen feet from the bike rack where I occupy my post as a security officer. We are required to carry a firearm for work, so I figured I can skip the lock.

— uncadan8 

Karma Award

I had put my road bike on my bike rack one day after a ride and, due to the ride-induced malfunction of my brain, forgot to lock it. I went to run an errand and came out of the store after being away from the car for 10-15 minutes max. Not only was my bike gone – but my rack had also been stolen. It was not a particularly valuable bike – but it was what I could afford at the time – and I was ripped.

I’m a nurse and had to be in to work that night – and was assigned to work in the ER. My 3rd patient of the evening was a young guy in his 20’s who came in with a fractured collarbone and quite a few scrapes. We got to talking about biking and the rides we had both enjoyed in the area. At that point, he told me that he’d had a bike vs. motor vehicle encounter that had brought him into the ER.

His girlfriend says "You’ve got to see the bike – it’s on the rack but it’s totally messed up!" I went out to the parking lot – and of course, it was my bike, my rack, and my helmet – which I hadn’t even realized was missing!! Guess that vehicle was one of those newfangled karmas…

— Joanie

Award for Most Shameless Plea for a Bike Bag

Can I PLEASE have the bag? I’ve had 2 bikes stolen. One from university rack, other from car in university parking lot.

—BotchedExperiment

Award for Laziest Entry

Can I PLEASE have the bag? I’ve had 2 bikes stolen. One from university rack, other from car in university parking lot.

—BotchedExperiment

Award for Most Un-Stolen Bike

I had a properly locked superbe pro/columbus slx road bike go missing from the university racks in 1985. I put in a report with campus security and the police. About a week later I saw a bike suspiciously like mine in the rack behind the science labs. I sidled over and had a look.

I recognised the scratch on the down tube. Then I recognised the lock. Then I remembered that I had visited a friend on the way to lectures on that fateful day. And had arrived from a different direction, and used a different bike rack, and had a memory like a sieve.

—BIG Mike

The "You Traded it for What?" Award

This one is visceral for me. When I was a lad of 8, my Mom bought me my big person’s bike; a new Raleigh Gazelle. I rode my Gazelle throughout the neighborhood in the early mornings and thus established a deep and life long habit of early morning rides that is attached at my core and I follow to this day. One day, I was at the "gully" in our neighborhood finding lead pieces (treasure) from a target shooter long past, when I heard a couple of big kids laughing. I looked up and noticed that the bike they were riding (away from me quickly) looked familiar. It was my Gazelle.

Needless to say, my existence was , well, shattered. I eventually resigned myself to the loss and got back on my 20" Schwinn hand-me-down. Many weeks later my big brother spotted what he thought was the Gazelle in the bike racks at the junior high he attended. He noted the serial number and indeed it was my bike. The police and my brother and my father all waited for the thief to come to the bike and confronted him. I got it back, fenders missing and the handle bars turned upside down. It was cool. I was happy to have my bike back.

I rode it for years and eventually traded it for banjo lessons when I was sixteen. I wish I hadn’t. I miss my Gazelle to this day and I sometimes think I should find another one for old time’s sake. Nowadays, I only leave my bike unattended outside of grocery stores in small towns where I have stopped for treats. I haven’t had any problems. 

—jimserotta 

The "If It’s Not Locked Up, It Must Not Be Worth Stealing" Reverse-Psychology Award

After 30+ years of riding bikes ive noticed if i lock up a bike, it gets stolen. If i dont lock it up, it stays. Ive never figured it out but it just works for me like that. Andits always the cheap bikes i own that always get stolen. My K-mart special, gone. my discount Diamondback, gone. My Cannondales and S-works, never move. Even all my bmx bikes never got stolen if i left em sitting around, but the minute i locked em up, Gone. 

—Donald Carter 

The "Dude, the Stolen Bike Was the Least of Your Problems" Award

I have a story of a stolen bike but it is, alas, deeply sad. The first real bike, a Trek 320 or some such number, a tourer with the nifty shifters in the drops, champagne. Bought it with my high school graduation money in 1979, rode it everywhere, moved in with a girl I thought I loved, possibly drank too much and certainly engaged in mild drug abuse. Wandered out of the apartment to drink too much, left the door ajar, returned to an emptied out shell of a place.

 —alas