03.9.2009 | 2:53 pm
How do you know you’ve gained some pounds over the winter? Frankly, it’s just not easy to tell. But if you notice any or all of the following, it’s possible you’ve gained some weight:
- You find yourself unwilling to get on the scale.
- Your comfortable clothes, aren’t.
- Your fat pants fit a little tight.
- Your bike shorts function as an increasingly effective tourniquet.
- You find that your favorite riding position is no longer possible, what with new obstructions and such.
- You have to loosen your helmet straps, because your head is thicker. Oh, and maybe your neck is, too.
- You suddenly find yourself drawn not to climbs, but to flat rides.
- Your “sucking in stomach” pose shows approximately the same amount of stomach as you used to show before striking the “sucking in stomach” pose.
Now, ordinarily I would pass these symptoms off as belonging to someone else, but not this year. This year I am proud of my largeness. Why? Two reasons.
- I am at a personal all-time high, weightwise. 188 pounds (OK, I was higher at one point when I was on steroids, but that was cheating). I believe one should always take pride in setting a new record.
- This is all part of my brilliant plan to be incredibly fast this year.
How Being Fat Is A Brilliant Racing Strategy
The problem with being a featherweight cyclist is that it takes more time to get a workout. You’re so light that hill climbs are practically no effort at all; you never get to experience the glorious feeling of exhaustion that can only be brought on by hauling 50 pounds of lard up the mountain.
I, on the other hand, get that kind of workout every time I get on my bike.
So you tell me: who’s getting the more intense workout? Who’s muscles are working harder? Who’s developing a set of quads powerful enough to leg-press a cement truck?
And, not least of all: Who’s legs are not only fighting gravity, but the squoosh of knees into stomach with every turn of the crank? And I’ll have you know: that squoosh is not trivial (although in the interest of full disclosure I should point out that there is a corresponding de-squoosh on every downstroke, wherein a measured 72% of the energy expended in squooshing the knee into my stomach is returned to the knee).
Step Two
Now that I have succeeded in part I of my brilliant and well-considered plan, some of you may think that I need to lose that weight.
The problem is, if I lose it too gradually, I run the risk of losing the power I have gained along with my magnificent girth.
Which is why I am not losing any weight at all right now. Instead, I will lose it all really fast, later.
I will let you know how I plan to do that when I figure it out myself. I’m man enough to admit that there are minor aspects of my plan that are not yet perfect. Still, I consider this a trivial detail and am not concerned about losing the weight. How hard can it be?
In short, 35 pounds of flub I’m carrying around right now isn’t a tragic failure of willpower.
It’s a strategy.
PS: It’s good to be back.
PPS: Tomorrow I unveil the Team Fatty jerseys for pre-order. And yes, I said “jerseys,” not “jersey.” And no, I don’t just mean that there are men’s and women’s versions. I. Am. So. Mysterious.
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03.8.2009 | 4:00 am
In 1924, a New York Times reporter asked George Mallory why he wanted to climb Mt. Everest. Mal (his friends call him “Mal”) replied, “Because it’s there.”
It’s a witty, quotable line, as evidenced by the fact that a krazillion people have since tried to sound witty while quoting it.
Unfortunately, unless you’re George Mallory and it’s 1924, giving “because it’s there” as your reason for doing something is not witty. It’s stupid, and it’s a lie. Please do me a favor and never say it again, especially if someone asks you why you bike.
Think for a moment. There are a near-infinite number of things that are “there.” If your reason for doing something–endurance mountain biking, for example–is because it’s there, you must also eat every single Big Mac on inventory at the local McDonalds, because they are there, too. And you’re going to need to learn to riverdance, because that’s there too. And look, just over that hill: there are some yaks that need shearing. And if I remember correctly, nobody’s manned a mission to Mars.
In short, you’ve got a lot of stuff to do if you’re going to use “because it’s there” as your primary criterion for doing something.You’d better get hustling.
My Reasons
Since I’m going to be all snippy about giving bogus cliches as my motivation for biking, I suppose I’d better have some actual, real reasons for why I do endurance rides and races.
- Because I can. I made it to my 30th birthday with the firm belief that I have no athletic ability at anything at all. Then I discovered that while I am not necessarily fast or technically capable, I can turn the cranks over nearly indefinitely. It’s my gift.
- Because I like it. Endurance rides make me happy. I like planning them. I like starting them. I like being with friends when I’m riding them. I like finishing them. Now, there are big chunks of time during any given endurance ride when I’m completely miserable, but the fact that I’m miserable but am not giving up makes me happy. This is probably perverse, but there it is.
- Because I like to tell stories. Long before I started this blog, I wrote stories about my long rides and sent them to friends or posted them on a web site I created because I like having people read my stories.
Your Reasons
So, why do you ride the way you ride? If you’re a downhiller, why do you downhill? If you’re a roadie, why? If you’re a trackie, why do you like to go around in circles?
I want to know. Really, I do.
PS: This post rescued from my Spaces archive. Originaly posted 18 August 2009 2006.
Comments (49)
03.7.2009 | 4:00 am
Monday (Labor Day), Kenny and I rode the Mt. Nebo Loop: 112 road miles, 7,717 feet of climbing. It’s quite possibly the best road loop in Utah, and Kenny and I picked a perfect day for it. The weather was mild, the mountain was beautiful, traffic was negligible, and we had a tailwind on the 40 miles of flat road at the end of the ride. (You can look at the climbing, speed, distance and other data for this ride at http://eldennelson.motionbased.com — Click on Mt. Nebo Loop.)
Really, it was just about perfect.
Except for just one thing.
About 2/3 of the way up the 22-mile-long climb, I noticed that my left shoe was sliding around on my left pedal. Which meant the cleats were loose. I knew without even bothering to look that I’d need a Phillips screwdriver. What I also knew without bothering to look was that I had no tools with me whatsoever. Kenny didn’t have any either.
So, I did the obvious thing: I started looking for a vehicle parked on the side of the road, one that looks like it might have a screwdriver. A truck, for example, would be a good bet. A Porsche Boxster would be a less-good bet.
Before long, I happened on a truck on the side of the road. There was nobody in it, though. I continued on until — surprise! — I saw a guy sitting on the side of the road about 20 feet from the truck. I could immediately tell that he was trying to spot elk. How could I tell? Camouflage, binoculars, and elk hunting season might have something to do with it.
“What luck,” I thought to myself. “This guy’s right by his truck and is doing nothing in particular! I’ll bet he’ll be happy to loan a cyclist a screwdriver.”
So I rolled up to him, slowing to a stop, and saying “Hi” to catch his attention.
And it’s a good thing I got his attention before I came to a stop, because if I hadn’t, he wouldn’t have witnessed the following sequence of events:
- I came to a complete stop, still clipped in.
- I started tilting, slightly to my left.
- I swung my left foot out, to clip out of my pedals.
- My cleat and pedal remained firmly attached to one another.
- I continued tipping to my left.
- I tried more desperately to unclip.
- I stayed clipped in.
- I crashed heavily on my left side, three feet from the man in camouflage.
- I said, “Oof!”
- I struggled to get from under my bicycle for an eternal minute, eventually removing my shoe so I can separate myself from the stupid thing.
- I asked the incredulous-looking man if he could loan me a screwdriver.
Evidently, three of the four screws that fastened my cleat to my shoe had come out, so that the cleat pivoted freely around the final screw.
Luckily, the man did have a screwdriver. I tightened the one remaining screw into the cleat, then removed one of the screws from my right shoe’s cleat and moved it over to the left shoe. And thus was I able to salvage the ride, though not my dignity.
You know what, though? I can’t help but wonder how the hunter tells this story. I imagine it begins with, “So I was just sitting there minding my business when this stinky, sweaty pansy in skin-tight shorts rode his bike right up to me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fear for my safety. Then the guy just fell over on his side for no reason whatsoever and started wrestling with his bicycle.”
Then he and his friends would speculate for hours — and rightly so — on what this strange event meant.
PS: This post rescued from my Spaces archive. Originally posted 09/06/06.
Comments (28)
03.6.2009 | 4:27 am
A Note from Fatty: Yes, the following really happened. Thanks to Dug for conducting this interview, and to Rick Sunderlage (not his real name) for confronting the unknown.
Salt Lake City, September 17 – Today we interview local cyclist and alleged “hero,” Rick Sunderlage (not his real name). Last Thursday evening, Sunderlage, a resident of Draper, UT, stopped in the Corner Canyon area below Lone Peak for a quick mountain bike ride on the way home from work. He planned to climb the new Boulevard Trail to the Hog Hollow saddle, climb to Jacob’s Ladder, and descend Jacob’s and the Squirrel Trail down to his vehicle.
Fate, however, had other plans for Sunderlage. A relaxing ride quickly turned into something else—an encounter in a rainstorm with a ferocious, mythical beast.
Rick, tell us a little about yourself.
Well, there’s not much to tell, really. I like to ride bikes.
Are you any good?
Ask around. I’m kind of a big deal.
Ha, ha, okay then. Anyway. Tell us what happened Thursday evening.
Sure. So I’m on my way home from work, it’s about 6pm. I’m thinking, I just want to get a quick climb and descent in before dinner, you know, just stretch the legs a bit. I park at the bottom of the Boulevard, a nice winding, brand new singletrack that climbs from Corner Canyon to the Hog’s Hollow saddle.
Are you sure you don’t mean Hog Hollow? I mean, have you actually seen a hog up there? You know that the hogs don’t actually own . . .
Dude, chill.
Yeah, sorry. Anyway. You’re climbing the Boulevard, in the trees, just enjoying yourself.
Right. Just climbing, all alone, no big deal. Suddenly . . .
Did you say “suddenly?”
Yeah, why?
Well, seems like you’d have had some warning. Nothing really happens “suddenly.”
Seriously, chill. Let me talk.
Um. Okay. Sorry. Go ahead. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever. . .
Whatever. Anyway. I see a very large white animal on the trail ahead of me, and I figure it’s a horse, since I’ve spent the last ten minutes dodging nice fresh horse crap all over the trail. But as I get closer, I realize it’s a mountain goat. Now I know you’re going to say, “Mountain goats don’t come down to 5,000 feet, least of all to 5,000 feet a quarter mile from several well-populated neighborhoods.” But don’t you think I was thinking the same thing? Of course I was. I was thinking “No Way, a mountain goat all the way down here? Cool.”
That is cool.
I just said that.
I know; I just wanted to . . .
Just let me tell it, okay?
You chill.
No, you chill.
Just tell the story.
Shut up. Okay then. So, like I said, mountain goat, right in the trail, like fifteen feet in front of me. It’s huge, and has quite a rack.
hee hee.
Dude, grow up.
Sorry.
So after we stare at each other for what seems like forever, the goat just turns and walks up the trail. I just get back on the bike and start climbing again. About five minutes later, I come around a pretty tight corner, trees all around, and suddenly, and yes, I mean SUDDENLY, I hear very loud snorting and huffing, and something moving very fast. The freaking mountain goat had climbed the trail ahead of me, hidden around a corner, and was ambushing me.
Shut up.
Seriously. He’s charging me at a full sprint, head down, huge rack of horns coming right at me. So I jump off the bike and swing it around in front of me and I start yelling like crazy.
What did you yell?
What?
What did you say when you yelled?
Really, just shut up and let me talk.
Sorry.
So the goat runs right up to me, and actually runs into my Gary Fisher Rig, which I’m holding between us. I’m thinking I’m dead, that my only hope is the goat gets his horns tangled in my bike and I can get away. But as soon as he hits my bike, he stops, and just stares at me. After I yell some more, he gives me a long stare and then takes off into the scrub oak and I can see him circling around behind me.
Like he’s stalking you?
Right, he’s following me. I get back on my bike and just keep climbing. And by now, it’s raining like crazy, so I can’t see or hear that well. I feel like I’m being stalked by the damned Chupacabra.
Really? The Chupacabra?
Yeah. You know, the goat sucker.
Oh, I know what the Chupacabra is.
Anyway, the Chupacabra is after me. I get to the saddle, and decide, maybe it’s best not to head to Jacobs and the Squirrel, so I just turn and take a good long look around to see if the goat is still after me, and I head down. I never saw him during the entire descent, but I fully expected him to jump out from around every corner and knock me off my bike and trample me.
You know the Chupacabra isn’t real, right?
All right, that’s it. We’re done.
PS: This post rescued from my Spaces archive. Originally posted 9/18/06.
Comments (20)
03.5.2009 | 4:20 am
Look, I acknowledge that as a cyclist, I am an interloper. I’m invading the ecosystem in an unnatural way, moving at a crazy rate and in a crazy way. From a natural point of view, I deserve everything that’s coming my way.
But I still hate stuff in the air.
Little Clouds of Teeny Little Bugs
I don’t know for absolute certain why tiny little gnat-like flying insects hang around in cloudlike swarms, but I have a theory: they’re waiting for me. They hover, strategically, over particular roads and trails, just because they know there’s a good chance that eventually I’ll ride by. And when I do, they can fly into my hair, nose, eyes, and — for the really lucky ones — straight down my throat and into my lungs.
This, of course, causes me to hack and spit, which is just what the evil little critters want, though I do not know why.
For the rest of you who have inadvertently ridden into swarms of tiny little bugs, you have my sympathy. At least you can take comfort in the knowledge that it was unintentional. Think how awful it would be if you were me, in which case those stupid little buglets would have meant to pepper you like that.
Flies
You want to blow someone’s mind sometime? Point out to them that no matter where in the world they go, if they just watch for a moment, they’ll see a housefly. Which means that houseflies are literally everywhere.
In particular, if you’re riding and stop, even for a moment, a housefly will come over to investigate. It will be especially interested in your eyes and ears. Is it the stinky bike smell that brings them? The sound of rapid breathing? Are flies attracted to lycra? I don’t know. But I do know that thanks to flies, I take fewer and shorter breaks while riding than I otherwise would. So “kudos” to the flies, I guess. Except I still kill them whenever I can, and always feel like I have done humanity a service when I do.
I have a theory. If we ever discover life on another planet, it will be houseflies.
Bees
You know, you can’t really tell how much riding someone does by asking them how long they’ve been riding, because a lot of years riding doesn’t mean a lot of riding during those years. You know what the standard measurement of biking seniority should be? How many times you’ve been stung while riding. The more time you spend in the saddle, the more certain it is that you’re going to be stung.
So far, I have been stung:
- On the head: This was the scariest sting, and the one I remember most vividly, because there was an agonizing delay between when I knew what was going to happen, and what happened. To wit, I felt an angry thrashing between my helmet and head for about one second before I got stung. And the thing is, once you’ve had that happen, you’re freaked out by any insect in your helmet for a good long while. It probably took a full two seasons after that happened before I was able to keep riding when a bug flew into my hair. Which is to say, for about two seasons, any time a bug flew into my helmet, I would immediately stop, throw off my helmet, and swat at my head in a panic. This didn’t look as sexy as it sounds.
- On the eyelid: You know what makes a wasp angry? Getting trapped between biking glasses and a face. You know what swells up really big in practically no time at all? An eyelid stung by a wasp. You know what isn’t as funny as your friends think? “Rocky Balboa” jokes made at your expense when your eye’s swollen shut in the middle of a ride.
- Inside my mouth: So I’m just breathing along, minding my own business. I accidentally suck in a bee. I spit it out as fast as possible, natch, but it gives me a going away present. My lip swelled up to comical proportions. Strangely, though, instead of hurting a lot, it went numb. Like at the dentist. The practical effect of this was that it was very difficult for me to drink from my Camelbak without dribbling all over myself.
- On my chest, inside my jersey: This has happened three, maybe four times, and I’ve seen it happen to other cyclists at least twice that many times. Based on this preponderance of evidence, I conclude that human beings are genetically programmed to simultaneously swat at the bee while ripping one’s jersey off and yelling “Gragght!” So far, I have never seen any of these things wind up being helpful.
Big Insects at High Speed
I have never been shot by a high caliber bullet, but I have hit a grasshopper with the the tip of my nose while descending on my road bike at more than 40mph.
I figure the feeling can’t be too dissimilar.
PS: This post rescued from my Spaces archive. Originally posted 9/29/2006.
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