11.21.2008 | 10:32 am
A Note from Fatty: Jim — the Unholy Roleur — brings an aggressive, testosterone-laden, hilarious perspective to cycling. Also, we both like to eat, where the word “like” can be defined as “think about it whenever I’m not doing it, and often plan what I’m going to eat next even while I’m eating now.” I’m excited to have Jim as my guest poster today.
Yes, this post is a little long. That’s Jim’s way. My advice? Pace yourself. Stick with it. You’ll be glad you did.
Oh, and for you kids under the age of 35: I recommend you watch this before going any further.
When Fatty offered me the chance to be a guest blogger, I leapt at it. It’s not often that somebody who could inadvertently eat you mid-binge asks for favors. But since he asked, I couldn’t resist.
My normal blogging is probably a little too off-color for a lot of you. I talk about my experiences racing as a Clydesdale, with an emphasis on the rear end of the horse; food; booze; or whatever strikes my fancy. So what could possibly be suitable for the (mostly) kind-hearted folk who read Elden’s site? A love story, I guess.
But this is no ordinary love story. It is a story about falling in love with the modern-day Marquis de Sade. It is an abusive love story, of love that is requited only in the regular abuse that the Marquis doles out to me. The Marquis never treats me well, yet I love him. Worst of all, he makes me pay to visit him, in spite of the fact that I’m the one prostituting myself. It is a terrible love affair, if you ask me. But I’m pretty happy with it, and the worse it treats me, the more I seem to like it.
It’s my affair with Mountain Biking.
A bunch of guys ride out of my local shop. They ride okay on the road, and have helped turn me from an obese sofa rat into a merely really fat bike racer through mere peer pressure, and making me ride to the point of unconsciousness. Yet in the woods, they are serious mountain bikers.
The winter before last they got me out on my old 26” wheeled rigid Kona MTB, converted down to a single speed. When you have the human equivalent of a one-track cockroach brain, it’s advisable to limit the number of inputs that it has to deal with. For my first ride, they took me down to Rosaryville, a lovely local park that has a lot of twisty but very smooth single track, in a flowing 8 mile loop. There are a few logs (like Giant redwoods, the first time I rode them) and a few creek crossings (veritable crossing-the-Rhine-under-German-fire-in-1945 type deals, I thought at the time) and scenic vistas (aka long drops to your death down steep hills).
We dropped out of the parking lot, pedaled smoothly down the trail, got into a rhythm, and within 20 yards of starting, I stacked it hard into a tree. It hurt like mad, I was nearly unconscious and I was dripping blood, but a persistent back pain I had been suffering all fall simply disappeared. The rest of the ride was uneventful, since they had to stop so often and wait for me as I braked hard for every corner, died riding up the hills on that brutal single speed, and generally terrified the wildlife with my ability to ride up to logs, stop, tip over, then hurdle over them on foot.
Hard to have an event at 5 MPH average speed, right? Yet it was a blast! Quicker than you could notice the blood running down the front of my jersey, I was falling in love.
You love her, but she loves him
And he loves somebody else
You just can’t win
And so it goes, ‘t the day you die
This thing they call love it’s gonna make you cry
I’ve had the blues. the reds and the pinks
One thing for sure
(Love stinks)
Love stinks yeah yeah
(Love stinks)
A few times that winter I got out on the shop’s demo bike, a nice rigid Soma 29’er. It was light, responsive to my touch, a pleasure to ride… Still, my sights were set on roadracing. But it seemed to me I could get a nice cheap rigid 29’er and work in some mountain biking somewhere along the line. I kept thinking about it all summer. I started reading that collection of dirt perversion, Dirt Rag. I started noticing cars with bike racks on top that had disc brake adaptors attached to the fork mounts.
There was a definite itch.
So I put some money down on a Redline Monocog Flight. It doesn’t have a lot of cachet, but it’s a nice, inexpensive, light, smooth rolling 29’er, perfect for a roadie who plays dirty once in a while. It took forever to come in, but just after Thanksgiving last year, I took it for a virgin ride. It was great. I stacked it so hard about a week after that that I thought I was going to die. It was truly love. It really hurt.
Over the course of the winter, I mountain biked probably once every ten days. I managed to crash hard in all the local parks, biting it on logs at Rosaryville, crashing in grass at one of the regional ballparks, and wadding it up repeatedly on a corduroy road section at Patapsco, a moderately technical local state park with some serious rocky and root-ey climbs.
This was all mere courtship though.
Around the middle of last winter, the bug really bit and we consummated our unhealthy relationship. I was riding along at Patapsco on a balmy 35 degree day. We were flying through this non-technical section that is a transit loop between a couple more challenging bits. I was swooping along, spun out, and I was in the groove, feeling a flow for the first time and hanging on with the group. About 15 seconds after I arrived in the zone, my front wheel hit a tiny stump in the middle of the trail, wrenched the bars from my hands, and flung me into a 6” sapling head first. All this at a speed of maybe 18 or 20 MPH. I was knocked out briefly, sprung to my feet, then fell right back down, probably in some poison ivy.
So this must have been love. My head was spinning. I was nauseous. When somebody suggested I get back on the bike I suddenly felt shy and coy. Eventually I did get back on, and we rode to a friend’s house. He gave me some aspirin and an espresso, while his wife – also a mountain biker – advised me not to bleed on the floor, or there would be consequences.
So I sat there for a while in a daze, with paper towels stanching the flow of blood from my ear, pondering how much I really was enjoying the ride right up to the point where I wasn’t. On the way out I thanked my friend, used the bathroom to wash some of the excess blood off, and stole his Blackberry. Or maybe it was his Palm. I’m not sure, I was seeing double and the difference between the monochrome screen and the color screen that distinguished that generation of handhelds would not have been eminently clear to me at that point.
Two by two and side by side
Love’s gonna find you, you just can’t hide
You’ll hear it call, your heart will fall
Then love will fly,
It’s gonna soar, I don’t care for any casanova thing
All I can say is…
Love stinks
(Love stinks)
Love stinks yeah yeah
(Love stinks) yeah yeah
You see, love makes you do stupid things. Like getting right back on the bike and signing up for the 12 Hours of Lodi, an endurance race near Fredericksburg VA that starts at midnight, and traverses a steeply rising and descending, muddy postage stamp of a course peppered with loose rocks, slippery roots, big holes, mud, dropoffs, and poison ivy.
Love also makes you tell people stupid things about how great your significant other is. If they have any sense, they tell you to go away until you’re over it. Unfortunately, most of my roadie friends are equally senseless. This resulted in a couple of my roadie friends joining me to form a 3 man team for the race, something I cannot apologize to them enough about.
We raced it, and I found out that while you may pride yourself on your ability to crash a bike repeatedly and hard, you don’t know anything about crashing repeatedly and hard until you’ve spent an entire night on highly technical terrain wadding the bike up. It was painful on the rigid frame, and adding to the humility some guys on fixed gears were doing laps about 50% faster than we were.
The apogee for me was crashing in this hole just on the other side of this two foot high root. I was able to get my front wheel up and over the root each time, but the drop down the other side, into a hole, ate the wheel each time and I ate the ground each time. I crashed exactly there on each lap. It was awful. On the final lap I decided to get off the bike, hoist it over and walk past. I stuck my foot in the hole and fell over, with my bike landing on top of me, biting my neck. A horrible experience. A truly horrible experience.
On the drive home, scratching my newfound poison ivy rash and looking at my wrists, which were swollen up like eggplants and about as purple, I decided to race some more.
But first I dropped some coin on a set of forks. If you’re going to have an ill-fated love affair, it’s no good for it to be brief. The pain has to be dragged on, and by lowering the pain threshold a bit, suspension forks allow your beloved to really, really torture you over an extended period of time before throwing you to the ground.
This led to more regular mountain bike rides. I crashed pretty much once a week, and on some lucky rides, I crashed three or four times. At a race at Granogue, hosted by my friend Fat Marc, I attempted to dodge a downed rider by riding into some innocuous-looking bushes.
And in fact, the bushes were innocuous…but the tree they hid was not. I hit it head first, stopped instantly, had clear fluid running out of my nose and a broken helmet. I compensated for this fairly obvious concussion by crashing twice in the rock garden, including an endo that somehow put me face and shin first (simultaneously) into some sharp rocks. I’ve been out on the bike since then and have tried to duplicate that particularly stimulating position, but we haven’t been able to achieve it together since that time. On the way up toward the start/finish line, I took a beer handup and decided to call it a day.
Nor were my romantic interludes over for the summer.
The thing about love is it’s addictive; the ones we love can hurt us but we keep coming back.
I’ve been through diamonds, I’ve been through minks
I’ve been through it all. . .
Love stinks
(Love stinks)
Love stinks yeah yeah
(Love stinks)
Love stinks yeah yeah
So I raced in the local cross country Wednesday night series. This introduced me to the idea that change in a relationship is a good thing. It also kills when you realize your beloved has changed radically, and you were unaware of it. Like if your wife / husband came home with a new person and suddenly announced that it was an open marriage, and by the way, the new person is also going to put everybody in the house, including the dog and the fish, on a macrobiotic diet, and the jogging regime starts tomorrow morning at 5:30 AM.
That’s what it’s like to go from a rigid frame to a frame with forks.
So I spent most of the summer Wednesday night series getting thrown off the bike violently at this creek crossing where the forks would bottom out, I’d go over the handlebars, the front wheel would taco, and the bike would jump on my back and bite me, while making eyes at all the other racers who were passing me by.
Those forks represented the open relationship phase of this love affair, and it was tough on me to realize I’d have to be a little more understanding of my beloved’s newfound flexibility and her wandering front end if I wanted to hang on to her. She didn’t want me if I couldn’t handle her new bounce.
Then the love really bit me. Some of the guys I ride with are real countercultural fellows. Not content to ride singlespeed, they have to ride fixed, or combine booze with fast MTB riding. Or hang out with people for whom mountain biking and sporting interesting facial hair is not an ironic statement, but a way of life. They kidnapped me and took me to an underground single speed MTB decathlon. I wasn’t the slowest guy everywhere – we had an insane gravel road descent where I was utterly in my element, but the uphill TTT and the technical stuff killed me. I mean, the chicks were kicking my butt even on flat ground and technical downhills.
It was rough.
But then I found my event: Bike Derby! It turns out there’s an underground mountain biking sport where you just ride around in a tight circle and knock people down! Having specialized in this in my crit racing days, I’d found my place in life. I didn’t worry about the front wheel tacoing – if it wanted to taco, we’d do that. I didn’t worry about the forks cutting under – it only meant I’d fall on top of somebody, which is good for laughs and style points in a derby. Most of all, I didn’t mind that it hurt, since I could pass on the pain to somebody else! Like settling in after a honeymoon, I understood my bike, and it understood me.
So the other week I was out at Patapsco with my friends, and we were pretty much jamming around the place on a three hour ride that wiped me out. I was thinking about this long hill that I can never clear. We were going up it and for a change, I thought I’d be able to get all the way up cleanly, past the steep rocky / rooty section right near the top. It didn’t happen, of course. My front wheel hit this big, tall root that always thwarts me, I stopped dead, and slowly tipped over, landing full in a bunch of poison ivy and some rocks. It’s what always happens, of the maybe 20 times I’ve tried to climb that hill.
But on the drive back, as I was scratching at my poison ivy rash, I had the last laugh. The second time we climbed that ridiculous hill, at the very end of the ride, I did manage to clear it. I got to the top clean for the first time ever, and felt like I’ve never felt before. The bike and I have a new understanding. Sure, she still tries to throw me off and stomp on me. All the time. But I understand that if I respect her boundaries, she’ll reward me with her little favors once in a while, and it feels great. Even without that I’d stick it out, but those rewards make it a lot sweeter.
Because of what it does to you, love still stinks. But once in a while, it’s the best thing in the world.
Comments (44)
11.19.2008 | 10:54 pm
A Note from Fatty: Today’s guest poster is the author of one of my daily must-read blogs: Jill Homer, of Up in Alaska fame. Jill is a journalist and cyclist in Juneau, Alaska. She completed the 2008 Iditarod Trail Invitational, a 350-mile winter ultra race that follows the famous Iditarod Trail in Alaska. She wrote a book about her experiences, which would make a great Christmas gift for the aspiring winter cyclist. It’s available at http://www.lulu.com/content/4691423. I’ve already ordered my copy.
Hi. My name is Jill Homer, also known in Google searches as “Jill in Alaska” and “That Crazy Cold Chick on a Bike.” Thanksgiving is coming up, so I’m writing a guest blog post on fatcyclist.com today to talk about how thankful we are as cyclists that winter is finally here. I know, I know. It’s been a long summer, and I’m sure that like me, you’ve grown weary of all the dry trails, warm sunny afternoons and daylight. But now that it’s winter, many of you are probably wondering “how can I extract the most enjoyment out of my bicycle?”
The answer is: Snow. I’m not talking about the light dusting on the road during your morning commute. I’m talking about winter off-road riding on trails carved into snow. And since this idea for some reason seems to be an affront to most cyclists’ sensibilities, I am here to impart my vast wisdom about the art of riding a bicycle on snow by answering some common questions.
And just in case you feel the need to question my expertise, I’ll have you know that I have been a winter cyclist in Alaska for three years. That may not seem like a long tenure, but what I lack in experience, I make up for in volume.
1. Where exactly can I ride a bicycle on snow?
Snowmobile trails are a great place to start: Wide, well-packed and often extensive, they offer great opportunities to venture out into the woods and weave around snow-laden trees even in the dead of winter. If snowmobilers haven’t yet run over your community, or if you object to riding in the wake of noxious exhaust fumes, hiking trails that are used by snowshoers and cross-country skiers also provide fun, often more technical singletrack for the ambitious snowbiker. If you live in far northern climes, frozen lakes and rivers, dog sled trails and ice roads also are tons of fun.
2. What kind of bike do I need to ride on snow?
You don’t necessarily need a winter-specific bike. Any mountain bike will do. However, those 2-inch tires they put on regular mountain bikes have plenty of disadvantages. Riding “skinny” tires on snow often feels like trying to ice skate through loose powder: You cut in and stop. Fat tires, which can be as wide as 4 inches, spread the weight like a snowshoe and float much better atop powdery surfaces. Plus, those monster truck tires and the fat frames that fit them will always generate plenty of attention (i.e. envy) from fellow winter trail users.
3. What if I can’t afford a winter-specific bike?
The general rule for skinny tire riders is “When in doubt, let air out.” Running regular tires at super-low pressures will help alleviate much of the ice-skate effect. Plus, you’re riding on soft snow, so you don’t have to worry about slashing the sidewalls.
4. Do I need studded tires?
The short answer is no, although they don’t hurt. Studded tires work wonders on hard ice, but they don’t do much for snowy trails. Still, glare ice is something all winter cyclists encounter no matter where they ride, so think of studded tires as added insurance.
5. What about downhill riding?
I thought you’d never ask. As an Alaskan, I like to ride to places where I can see Russia, you know, just to check out the scene and make sure Vladimir Putin isn’t doing anything sinister that day. This generally means riding up high in the mountains, getting a great workout and carving some wide tire tracks into the local ski hill. But what goes up must come down, so you want to make sure you have a good set of brakes on your bike. Rim brakes are no good, because rims can ice up and the calipers can get clogged with snow that is wafting off the tires. Disc brakes, preferably mechanical disc brakes, work much better. After that, downhill snow biking is just like any downhill biking: Slide your butt over the back wheel and hold on.
6. Help! My bike is fishtailing out of control and my brakes are already locked up!
When this happens, there’s a good chance you’re already slipping sideways down the mountain. My best advice is to lay the bike down and ride it out. It’s only snow, after all. Be grateful this didn’t happen to you on talus.
7. What do I wear?
Easy: Anything that keeps you warm. The truth is, there’s no standard clothing for winter cycling. I like to tell the youngins that back in the day when I started winter cycling, back in 2005, we wore four pairs of cotton socks and fleece pajama bottoms when it was 10 below and we felt fine, just fine. But I’ve since learned a few truths to keep in mind when choosing your gear:
- Circulation over insulation: Those four pairs of cotton socks will do nothing for you if your toes are squeezed into a tiny pair of shoes. Frostbite will happen before you realize it because you can’t feel your toes anyway. The best footgear to go with is a comfortable pair of boots a couple sizes too large, a heavy pair of wool or synthetic socks and a liner sock.
- Breathe, breathe, breathe: If the temperature is below freezing, there’s not much chance of getting wet from precipitation. Sweat, however, can be your worst enemy, and it will freeze in the strangest places (beneath your coat, for instance.) You want to layer up with plenty of breathable base and mid-layers, and make sure your outer layer breathes as well. If you start to feel warm, take something off. Never let yourself sweat too hard, unless you’re interested in conducting an experiment to see which of your layers will freeze solid (Warning: You may become one of those frozen layers.)
- Happy hands and head: Gloves and hats are very important. Keep your hands and head warm, and the rest of you is likely to follow.
8. What do I drink?
I hear there are many forms of hard alcohol that won’t freeze. But if you’re interested in hydration, the best solution is an insulated water bottle strapped to the bike. Others have all sorts of solutions for Camelbaks, but I’ve never had much success with keeping the hose from freezing.
9. What do I eat?
My favorite foods that don’t freeze: Nuts, chocolate, Pop Tarts, dried cherries, sunflower seeds, and the most perfect food ever invented: Peanut butter cups.
10. This all sounds so awesome! When do I start?
Why not today? After all, if you’re a snow biker, a whole new cycling season is just beginning.
PS from Fatty: Seriously, go buy Jill’s book.
Comments (56)
11.19.2008 | 10:34 am
A Note from Fatty: In order to reduce the mope quotient of this blog, I’ve asked some friends to post for me for a few days. Today, Dug — the guy who got me into riding in the first place and now the author of a great blog of his own — has a great (and true) story from Fall Moab 2009. Yes, 2009. Fall Moab dates are always noted by fiscal year.
I’ve been called many things–doofus, a “nice” guy, just plain dug, oh, and a #%$#ing %$#k.
But I’ve also been called “shepherd,” a title I’ve picked up over the years because I’ve introduced a lot of people to mountain biking, and usually make it my business to make sure the new guys make it back to the trailhead. Sure, many of my “sheep” have ended up with broken bones, dislocated shoulders, concussions, and 10 inches worth of baseball stitches in the thigh. But pretty much all of my sheep end up with big grins too.
Oh, and I’ve never lost a sheep. That is, until last weekend. When I had my crook taken away.
But before we get to that, let’s address the shepherd thing. Generally the life of the shepherd is spent at the back, usually with newbies, or with non-newbies who are struggling. Why would anybody do that?
Well, first, because I’ll never ride at the front anyway. And as Reese Bobby always said, “if you aint first, you’re last.” Right? I ride with fast guys who can kill me with their toes. So shepherd is something that just happened. You know. Some people are born shepherds, some people have shepherd thrust upon them. Not that I’ve ever been thrust on someone. If you follow.
Anyway.
Also, and please don’t tell anybody this, because I’m bit of a misanthrope [fancy word for another word Elden wouldn't let me use in this post--Hi Elden!] and if people thought that I really believed in making people happy, they wouldn’t respect me anymore, or something like that, but actually, being a shepherd is quite rewarding. You take someone who has never known the pain of climbing AF Canyon to the top, never known the terror of descending it again at warp speed, someone who has always wanted to get on top of Mt. Superior in winter and ski the north face and, well, you give it to them. It’s pretty cool. I’m pretty sure at least 5 people I’ve introduced to mountain biking have since finished Leadville.
But mostly, it expands the pool of possible riding/skiing partners. It’s hard to find someone who loves the up as much as the down. So sometimes you have to build them from scratch.
Like Elden. Who was, um, a rollerblader when I found him. And now he’s more famous than the Beatles. At least in Alpine, where the Beatles are banned. I think. Anyway, he used to be like John Travolta in his “Look Who’s Talking” days, and I made like Quentin Tarantino and turned him into The Fat Cyclist. Who wouldn’t want that on his resume?
And while sheep have been shorn, have broken helmets completely in half, have made a few trips to the emergency room, I’ve never had a sheep’s wife text me from Iowa while I was actually in the Grand County Search and Rescue Headquarters explaining to Search and Rescue Director Mr. Bego where I last saw the sheep, and have said sheep’s wife text me, “Hi Doug. Is Tom with you?”
Um. Whoops.
Here’s my justification: I had had a raging battle for my soul between the misanthrope and the shepherd.
See, I’ve been riding with Tom for almost 15 years. Tom is a terrible tinkerer. That is, no matter how much time you give Tom to get ready to roll, he invariably needs about five minutes (or sometimes an hour–that’s the problem, you actually don’t know) more than you give him. And I’ve gotten used to that over the years. Like M said to Bond, “I knew you were you.” Tom is a tinkerer like Elden is a blogger, like Ricky Bobby is a winner. He is what he is. I knew it. Heck, I’ve embraced it. Asking him to not to be that would be like getting mad at a bear for eating you. Or, you know, something like that, except less morbid.
But up on Gold Bar Rim, I had an actual, literal (I have it on tape) moment where the little red devil on one shoulder (the misanthrope) and the little white angel on the other shoulder (the shepherd) had a cage match in my head and the devil beat the angel unconscious. So when the group was ready to roll, and Tom had his shoes off and his pack unpacked, I snapped and left him there.
Oh how I wish “there” was Draper’s Corner Canyon instead of Gold Bar Rim, the most Search-and-Rescue-prone area in all of Moab.
Turns out part of being an inveterate tinkerer helped Tom that day (I mean apart from getting his butt left at the top of a remote mesa). His pack is full of useful things like matches, a light, a lighter, extra clothes. (Everything that day but his cell phone.)
Me and Bego found him at the bottom of the Portal Trail, not where he had fallen (whew), but where he had hiked down and off the mesa. It had been dark for 4 hours, and was already below 35 degrees and falling.
Mr. Bego sternly asked me to turn over my shepherd badge.
Okay, we don’t really have shepherd badges, but we should. I would have been honored to join the likes of Axel Foley, Martin Riggs, and even James Bond in turning in my badge and gun.
Cuz they always got their badges back, right? You still love them, right? Heck, even Bob Haldeman got rehabilitated. Eventually.
C’mon. Somebody’s gotta ride sweep. You know you don’t want to.
Comments (68)
11.17.2008 | 12:02 pm
This post may wander a bit, which is appropriate, because my intention is to talk about how my mind currently wanders a bit.
The way things are going, though, I may wind up talking about something else entirely. I guess we’ll find out after I get to the end of this post.
Wow. I’ve started wandering already.
Sorry About That, Joyce
At work today, a coworker — the HR person in my company — walked by and said hi to me.
"Hi, Lynne," I replied.
She disappeared into her office, after which the person I was talking with said, "Uh, that was Joyce."
It’s not weird that I called someone by the wrong name. I am pretty sure I call my twins by the wrong name more often than by their correct names. What’s weird is that I didn’t realize I had called her the wrong name until someone pointed it out.
Dimness like this is pretty common for me right now. Earlier that morning I was giving a presentation to the sales team in my company and came across the acronym "SOA." It’s possibly the most common acronym used at my company, but I could not remember what it stood for.
"I’ve blanked on what SOA stands for," I admitted.
"Service-Oriented Architecture!" the sales team yelled, in unison (and probably with some concern that the product manager for the company didn’t know).
Deer in Headlights
I’m kind of limping along with this blog, too. I mean, I tried to be kinda funny about the Velveeta thing last week, but after I finished it I could see that it wasn’t right — it skirted and glanced off of the joke, without actually being funny.
And I’ve had to breathe into a paper bag a few times when I’ve considered what I’ve done by committing to building and maintaining a set of four teams for the LiveStrong Challenge, along with drumming up all the support to make them successful. It’s the right thing to do, but my energy isn’t up to my intentions.
So of course I posted a request for help, and now I’ve got more than 350 unread email messages, from people volunteering to help me out. I’ve opened my email program five or six times with the intention to start working through the list. Then I shut it down, telling myself I’ll get to it later.
No, I’m not bailing out. Just acknowledging that today I feel weak. It’s weird to be in a state of being so overwhelmed you can’t even process offers of assistance.
The thing is, try as I might to fake it, I am seriously overextended, mental energy-wise. I have used up everything I have trying to take care of Susan and the kids, with a little left over for my job.
I know, some of you will encourage me to set aside the blog and take care of the essentials. And that’s good advice.
But I’m not going to take it.
See, writing helps me clarify what’s spinning around in my head. Plus, I feel like it’s worthwhile to describe this whole experience, as honestly as I can. And right now, that means writing — and I get the irony here — about not having the energy to write. About trying to focus my thoughts well enough to describe how I’m currently unable to focus.
Seriously, I have no idea of whether I’ve succeeded or not.
Comments (80)
11.14.2008 | 1:37 pm
I have a very, very important ethical dilemma I want to talk about today, but first I want to answer a couple of questions many people have been asking about Team Fat Cyclist: Fighting for Susan (“Team Fatty” for short).
- Where’s it going to be? A lot of you have asked, “Which event / challenge will Team Fatty participate in: San Jose, Seattle, Philly, or Austin? The answer is: All of them. We’re going to win the Team awards for all four separate events, and then, when they combine our team size and money raised, we’re going to win the overall, too. (By the way, I’m not just making this up; I checked with LAF to make sure we can do this.)
- If you can’t attend the event, can you still be part of the team? You bet you can. You’ll be able to sign up as a volunteer and still help raise money for the team. The most important part of being part of Team Fatty is not about being at the event. It’s about working together to fight cancer (and it’s also about kicking all the other teams’ butts, too). As for myself, I hope to attend all the events (but also have to be honest with myself and admit circumstances might prevent me from attending some — or even any — of them).
- What If you don’t — or someone who wants to join with you doesn’t — ride a bike? You can still join. There’s a run/walk option.
- What if you’re already committed to a LiveStrong team? I suggest you stay on that team and work hard for it. I don’t want to poach anyone. That’s not what this is about.
- What does the money you raise in the LiveStrong Challenge do? It does a lot. A lot of people have been asking me why I’m a big fan of the Lance Armstrong Foundatiion. Sometime next week, I’m going to go into specifics.
Expect more details as I figure out what the heck I’m talking about.
I’m Going to Need Some Help On This
Since I announced that I’m going to form Team Fatty, I have received a lot of email. All of it’s been helpful, and a huge amount of it’s been extremely generous. In fact, I think you’re going to find it pretty exciting what you might win by either joining or contributing to Team Fatty.
The thing is, right now I can’t handle all of this. I’m waaaaay behind on my replies and it’s getting worse. (People who have written to me already: please be patient and I’ll try to get back to you this weekend, events permitting.)
It’s almost as if I’m trying to maintain a job, take care of four children, take care of a sick wife, write a blog, and manage a big event/contest, all by myself.
I need some help from a few people who are willing to keep track of prizes, keep track of registration, and keep track of the four Team Fatties. If you’re willing to help me out, email me with what you’re good at.
Thanks!
The Velveeta Dilemma
One of the most difficult chores I have is finding foods that Susan will eat. Nothing really sounds good to her.
Except for one thing: Scrambled Eggs, prepared using my Grandma’s recipe. Susan has those every day. Because they are incredibly delicious.
The thing is, Grandma’s Scrambled Eggs are easy to prepare. Ridiculously easy, in fact. But until Susan got sick, I haven’t made them, ever.
Why? because Grandma’s Scrambled Eggs use Velveeta Cheeze. And I just couldn’t bring myself to buy or use Velveeta. I just couldn’t. Cheese shouldn’t be shaped like that. It shouldn’t taste like that. And it for sure shouldn’t be textured like that.
Velveeta, as far as I was concerned, is useful only as fish bait.
Now, I am not a foodie. Far from it. But still: Velveeta Cheeze is just gross.
Still, when I racked my brain trying to think of something soft and warm and comforting for Susan to eat, I thought of my Grandma’s Scrambled Eggs — just regular scrambled eggs, but with a little Velveeta instead of cheddar — and how nobody could resist them.
So I swallowed my pride and bought Velveeta for the first time in my life (I don’t fish a lot). And of course, the scrambled eggs turned out wonderfully. Warm, fluffy, mellow, and perfect. I make them for Susan every morning. And what she doesn’t eat, I finish off. And the kids, who don’t know any better, love these scrambled eggs without even having their irony alarms going off.
Which leaves me with a dilemma: how am I supposed to accept this new reality, this horrible, horrible truth? It pains me to say it, yet I know it is true:
Velveeta is a new staple at the Fat Cyclist household.
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