A few months ago I got some samples of something called #ITSTHENERVE — little two-ounce bottles that are supposed to stop cramps in their tracks.
The next time I had a cramp come on, I opened one, drank it…and within seconds, the cramp was gone. And that’s happened twice more since then.
And in short, this #ITSTHENERVE stuff has worked for me, every single time.
So I had to learn more. And that’s how I wound up with Dr Bob Murray, with Flex Pharma, talking about this mysterious product.
You can listen to it on iTunes, you can download the MP3, or if you use a podcast tool like Overcast, you can use my RSS feed (http://fattycast.com/rss), or your can listen to it right here:
It’s an interesting interview with a smart (and nice) guy about a product I’ve had a lot of success with.
PS: Be sure to follow #ITSTHENERVE on Twitter, and maybe get in on the pre-order that’s going on this week, as they prepare to launch and reveal what they’re going to call this product.
PPS: Full Disclosure: I am not compensated in any way by #ITSTHENERVE, but I did get several sample bottles at no charge.
One of the things I like best about writing this blog is the fact that it has made me extremely famous, tremendously beloved, and remarkably wealthy.
Also, it has made me tall, thin, and handsome. Plus my hair has somehow become thicker and somewhat curly. (For some reason, it almost always appears to be waving in a slight breeze.)
These benefits — and many more (more than I currently wish to count, really), I assure you — come at a cost, however.
I get so, so much email. Mostly from people who want to write high-quality guest posts in nearly-decipherable English about why bikes are a good choice for fitness and recreation and all they want back is a link to their site, which may or may not (but most likely may) install malware on my readers’ computers. An enticing and fair trade, to be sure, but one I generally shun.
The other kind of email I frequently get is questions. What kind of bike should I buy? (A red one.) Should I try racing? (Yes, everyone should try racing.) Should I shave my legs? (Yes, everyone looks better with shaved legs.) Do I really need to wear bike shorts with a chamois? (Not unless you are going to be riding for more than an hour.)
Really, it’s like people think that just because I know everything I want to actually share that knowledge.
And yet, from time to time, I get a truly interesting question, such as the following:
First of all, let me begin with this sentence.
Next I would like to absolve myself of any insult I may inadvertently make by addressing a complete stranger with a nickname that is very rarely used affectionately.
Third, I would like to come straight to the point, which I will do in my fourth point.
Fourth, I would like you to tell me how I can train with purpose, excellence, and efficiency, gaining maximum value without special equipment, and hopefully in a trivial amount of time. My ideal outcome would be to be offered multiple contracts from a number of professional teams by the end of this fiscal quarter.
This is an extremely well-conceived question, and one I am happy to answer. Especially since I took about 750 words just to get to it.
The truth is, Steve, there’s no shortcut to being a faster racer. No, wait. That’s actually not true. There are actually a number of very good shortcuts, such as the following:
- Doping: This is a popular option and is covered elsewhere.
- Putting a motor in your bike: This is not as popular, as far as we know, but seems like it would be more fun, be less expensive and probably involves fewer needles and blood bags.
- Actually taking a shortcut: This, weirdly, seems to be the least-offensive way of shortcutting your way to racing success, so I guess I recommend it.
I’m just kidding, Steve! You shouldn’t do any of these things. Instead, you should train your guts out, spending all your free time (and also a fair amount of your work time) riding your bike so hard that every moment on the thing is pure torment, and the only pleasure you ever get from the bike is in boasting to others how much suffering you endure while doing this, your hobby.
If you’re going to go this route, I strongly recommend having a blog. And writing multi-part race reports that describe your suffering at this thing you paid to do in absurd detail.
But training hard isn’t enough, Steve. No. Not enough at all. Because just saying, “I trained hard” is too simple, and if there’s one thing we’ve learned from the Velominati, it’s that there needs to be at least a hundred rules that tell you how you’re doing it wrong.
Thus, we now have zones for describing your suffering. These are helpful mostly for impressing people who don’t know what zones are, because jargon makes simple things complicated, what you’re doing is complicated, it must be work, and therefore has value.
Or something like that.
Anyway, training has zones of effort, ranging from Zone 1 (not actually riding your bike) to Zone 7 (riding your bike with such intensity that your shins get hot from air friction).
Here is a screencap of the amount of time I spent in the various zones while on a recent ride:
That’s really impressive, isn’t it? I mean, with those tables and bar charts, I must be really be a force to be reckoned with when cycling. At least, I hope that’s what it means. I guess it could mean that I spend most of my time in Zone 1, sort of tooling along while I eat Chicken McNuggets dipped in Ranch sauce.
No Equipment Required
Sadly, in order to tell what zone you are riding in, most training methodologies require you have a great deal of expensive equipment: a power meter, a heart rate monitor, and a cadence sensor.
Fortunately for you, Steve, I have developed a set of simple observational techniques that will help you quickly and accuratey tell which zone in which you are riding.
I present them here, to you, at no charge. (Because, thanks to this blog, I’m already extremely well-to-do.
- Zone 1 — Active Recovery: If you can look up and notice that it’s a beautiful day outside, maybe nod and wave to other riders, you are in Zone 1.
You are probably having fun right now, enjoying your bike, glad to be out and getting some exercise. Real cyclists consider this kind of riding “junk miles” and would like you to know that you should be ashamed of yourself.
- Zone 2 — Endurance: When you go into Zone 2, your thoughts become dominated by how much you enjoyed Zone 1, and several reasons why you ought to go back to Zone 1 spring to mind.
You realize you can probably go at this pace for another few minutes, but you don’t really want to.
- Zone 3 — Tempo: The good news is you can no longer think of any good reasons why you should go easier. The bad news is you can no longer think about anything at all. Except pain, and how much your legs hurt. And your lungs do too.
You can’t talk when you’re riding in Zone 3, and that’s probably a good thing. Because if you could talk, you would have several complaints to make. Also, you would explain that you can’t keep this pace up any longer, and you’re not sure how you’ve kept it up as long as this.
- Zone 4 — Threshold: Zone 4 is called “Threshold” because you are on the threshold of vomiting, unless you are actually vomiting, which is equally likely. So Zone 4 could accurately be called “Vomit,” and from now on that’s what I propose we all call it.
And it works both ways, too: the next time you need to throw up, instead of saying “I think I’m going to hurl,” just yell “ZONE 4!”
- Zone 5 — VO2Max: Your legs are screaming. No, I mean actually and literally screaming. People riding in your vicinity ask you why your legs are screaming.
“Because I’m in Zone 5,” you reply.
“Shall I call the police?” they ask.
“Obviously,” you reply.
- Zone 6 — Anaerobic: You are in pain. You have always been in pain. You have always been riding, and you have always been in pain. You do not know why. You would ask someone, but you are alone. Alone and in pain. Now and forever.
- Zone 7 — Neuromuscular: Zone 7 doesn’t actually exist. It’s just a silly term made up to make us feel like even when we’re killing ourselves in Zone 6 it’s not good enough and we should feel bad about ourselves for not training as hard as we ought.
This should give you everything you need in order to become a strong and effective racer, Steve, even without power meters, heart rate monitors, or cadence sensors. Best of luck in your training efforts.
PS: I wrote this while riding my trainer, primarily in Zone 8.
I have a key takeaway from the 2016 RAWROD: It doesn’t matter how beautiful something is if you don’t take the time to look at it.
And here’s another key takeaway: nothing’s so beautiful that it justifies getting your eyes and face sandblasted as you look at it.
Which is to say, for pretty much the entirety of this ride, I kept my head down and just rode. Giving about 60% of all my mental cycles over to a single thought: “I can hardly wait ’til this is over.”
But you know, that leaves 40%, and that 40% is worth mentioning.
I’d say I spent about 50% of that 40% (i.e., 20%) wondering, “Where is everyone?” We had started together, we had waited in the places where you wait, we had ridden at a reasonable pace.
And yet, we were alone. And thanks to the wind, we just couldn’t make ourselves sit there and endure the wind any longer than we had to.
Which leaves me with 20%. And 75% of that 20% (in other words, 15%) I thought about how it was pretty darned cool that we were doing this amazing ride in a beautiful place in terrible conditions.
I thought about how weird it is to choose to do something harsh and difficult, for no reason other than you had decided to do it. Or in my case, because you like being with someone who had decided to do it, and know yourself well enough that if you don’t do it, you’ll kick yourself afterward. A lot.
I thought about how it was pretty cool that even though the wind was almost always in our face, we rode side by side, so we could hold a shouted conversation. By the end of the day, we’d both have hoarse voices from spending the day yelling everything we wanted to say. Usually at least a couple of times.
And in the end, we did it.
Wasn’t it clever the way we wore our 100 Miles of Nowhere jerseys, seeing as how this route, according to my GPS is exactly 100.0 miles long — the only perfect natural century I know of or have ever ridden.
We waited for the rest of the gang. We waited while we changed. We waited while we ate and drank.
But the wind was getting worse, and we had a storm to beat if we were getting home.
So, without seeing anyone from our group arrive, we left.
But we didn’t beat the storm. In fact, as we went over Soldier Summit, we rode through incredibly windy whiteout conditions. I slowed to thirty miles — and often slower — as I white-knuckled the steering wheel for the longest forty-five minutes I have ever driven.
I’m not a big fan of driving over mountain passes in blizzards. Especially when I’m exhausted from a long day of mountain biking for a hundred miles in a windstorm.
But we made it.
The next day, I texted Kenny: “Are you guys alive? What happened? Where were you?”
I expected a reply full of drama and adventure. What actually happened…was a little less interesting.
Basically, partway up the Mineral Bottom dirt road, they realized they had not brought their passes or money for the toll booth. Not realizing that neither were necessary on this particular day, they turned around and went back to the beginning to get their money and passes.
And that’s it. That’s the end of the story, really. And I feel like I’ve let you down here. There wasn’t a lot of drama in this story. Just a lot of wind and a group separation due to pretty mundane circumstances.
But you know what? Not every story is going to have a lot of drama, outside what happens in your head. Sometimes, just deciding to start is the story. Then deciding to keep going. And then finishing a very hard day and getting a burger afterward.
Sometimes a plain ol’ difficult ride is adventure enough.
PS: Really, I should give better detail on how things went for the rest of the group. Ryan and Jaooaooaooooeeoooeeeooo finished about an hour behind The Hammer and me. I am not certain, but don’t think they finished together. Which means those guys suffered magnificently.
As for the Kenny / Heather group, they finished too, about an hour and a half after The Hammer and I did. My guess is that Kenny had a fun day and was cheerful throughout.
A Note About The Sponsor from Fatty: As you know (and if you don’t know: shame on you), The Feed has graciously joined up as a FatCyclist.com sponsor.
What you may not know, however, is that they pay me with product. And that’s by my choice, not theirs. They offered to give me regular ol’ money, but I said I’d rather have them hook me up with different things from their stock each month.
I got my first shipment a week ago, and there are a couple of things that really stand out. In a very good way.
The first of these is the Rip van Wafels Dark Chocolate Sea Salt Wafel. It is, without question, the best-tasting energy food waffle I’ve ever had. Chewy, moist, perfect. I highly recommend buying a whole bunch of them (20% off if you buy at least six). And if you promise yourself you will not eat them except when you are riding, I guarantee you will ride more often.
Oh, and also: right now if you spend at least $20 at The Feed, you’ll get a free Bonk Breaker Endurance Pack. Which means you should go buy seventeen of these, stat, thereby getting a bunch of great waffles at a great price, and getting a bonus as part of the deal.
Unwilling to Wait
I think it’s safe to say that The Hammer and I are both pleasant people. Sure, I’m a little more sociable than she is, but she’s become accustomed to the fact that I like meeting and talking with people.
But there’s such a thing as extenuating circumstances.
Toward the end of the previous episode of this ride report, I described how Ryan, The Hammer and I arrived at Musselman’s arch. There, we took photos, stood on the arch, ate, and hung around.
We were being patient. We were.
Meanwhile, the wind blew. Harder, and worse. The wind stung. And it was going to be against us as we rode.
Both The Hammer and I were feeling very antsy. Anxious. Feeling like if we didn’t get moving, we could run out of water a long time before we ran out of trail. (It’s a common misconception that the water you’re carrying is to last you a certain distance. The reality, that water lasts you a certain amount of time. If you spend a lot of time on a self-supported ride not in motion, you are much more likely to run out before the end of the day than if you keep your breaks short.)
So The Hammer and I decided to go. Even though Kenny, Lucas, Heather, Joaooaooaooaa and Kathleen hadn’t arrived at Musselmans yet.
As The Hammer and I shrugged our Camelbaks back on, strapped on our helmets, and…saw Joaaooao approaching. Good. Ryan didn’t seem interested in leaving Musselman’s yet, so having Joaoaooo would ensure the buddy system remained intact.
I kind of regretted leaving before we talked with Jaaooaoooeooeooeoo, but figured they’d all catch us when we stopped for lunch at Vertigo Void. (Where we would NOT be throwing rocks off the cliff edge.)
The Hammer and I rode on. Against the wind.
Ninety Percent of the Time
Together, we pushed on, the wind always at a cross-headwind, a crosswind, or a headwind. Always.
I pictured the route we were on:
No, it’s not a perfect circle, but it does have me going in every possible direction at least a reasonable fraction of the time.
Hence, while this incredible wind would definitely be in our face for a good chunk of the time, it would also be at our backs a good chunk of the time.
It stands to reason, right? Right?
But that’s not the way it worked out. Apart from the first eleven or so miles of the ride, I’d say about 90% of our day had us battling a harsh, stinging headwind.
And when the weather’s like that, you just don’t look up very often. You keep your eyes down. And you don’t take many pictures.
You just fight the wind. Ninety percent of the time.
Mostly, in fact, I kept wondering to myself whether the day would have been much, much easier if we’d ridden in the opposite direction. Occasionally, we’d see riders coming toward us, and I’d be tempted to ask: “So, is this day as easy for you as it is difficult for us?”
But I never got up the courage. And The Hammer tells me the day was almost certainly as difficult in the other direction as it was for us.
I personally think she’s just saying this because she feels bad about making me do this ride.
We got to White Crack, the mental halfway mark for the ride. At which point, the wind suddenly was at our backs, and we flew for five miles or so, all the way to Vertigo Void, the traditional lunch-eating spot for the group.
For me, that was a Blimpie’s sandwich (The Hammer and I always get Blimpie’s sandwiches in Green River the day before White Rim), a Coke, and a Red Bull.
We watched up the trail, waiting. Hoping. Expecting.
We hadn’t been pushing especially hard, not with this wind. We had just been going at what I’d call a “let’s get this done” pace. Very few breaks, very few pictures.
Not dilly-dallying. But not racing, either.
So where was everyone else?
Normally, we’d have sat around and waited. Vertigo Void is a beautiful spot and a nice place to rest before a series of big climbs.
But then the gusts started. Sand-laden, stinging, miserable gusts of wind.
Riding, they’d at least be sort of pushing us along, when they weren’t sandblasting one side of our face or another. But just sitting there, it was awful.
We ate fast, packed up.
“I don’t think we’re going to see anyone else from the group the rest of the day,” I said. The Hammer agreed. We weren’t trying to beat anyone; this is a social ride.
But a brutal wind had done a fine job of sandblasting away any social impulse we had. We just wanted to get this ride done.
Which is what I’ll talk about in the next installment of this story.
“I reserve the right to call this off,” I told The Hammer. “And if I call it off, I want you to respect that I’m making the call in absolute, utter seriousness. I’m not calling it off because I’m looking for an argument, or to be convinced that we should not call it off. I’m calling it off because it needs to be called off.”
It was six in the morning, we were driving to Moab for our annual Ride Around White Rim in One Day (RAWROD) ride. And the wind was so strong I was literally having a difficult time keeping the truck in the correct lane.
So sure: I was being a little hyperbolic. But only a little.
Anticipating that the wind would be a part of this story, I sagely took a screen grab of the hourly weather forecast on my phone:
I just wish I had taken a screen grab of the more detailed forecast I had seen online the night before…the one that said we could expect gusts of up to 45mph.
And in short, I had concerns about riding in the desert, against harsh winds, unsupported, for 100 miles, in one day.
I know, I know: call me a pessimist.
Long Ride, Short Time
You’ve got to give us credit, though: we did show up. The Hammer and I got to where we traditionally begin the ride — at the end of Mineral Bottom road, the top of Horse Thief climb. We unpacked and were ready to roll by the 7am starting time.
But not a lot of other people were ready.
Now, I’m not saying that the people who were there weren’t ready. Because they were. What I’m saying is that there weren’t a lot of people there.
As it turns out, I was not the only person who had checked the weather and found it wanting. Others, however, had elected to do things with their weekends that did not involve harsh winds while mountain biking unsupported in a sandy desert all day.
However, Kenny and Heather were there, on their tandem. And Kenny’s and Heather’s friends, Kathleen and Lucas, were also there.
And Ryan Thompson, to whom the laws of physics don’t apply even a little bit. And Jaoaoaaooa. Whose name I am pretty sure I am misspelling, but I think it has pretty close to that many vowels.
And in short, I am not good with names.
We began on time, more or less. I was chatting with Kenny and Heather, while noticing that The Hammer was beginning to pull away.
Hey, she’s The Hammer. It’s what she does.
I stood up and chased, managing to catch her. I looked over to my right, and there was Ryan. Thanks to a nice tailwind, the elevenths miles of straight dirt road warmup climb went by fast, and The Hammer claimed the QOM of Mineral Bottom as her own — even with a pee stop.
I looked back. Kenny, Heather, and the rest of the gang were nowhere to be seen.
“Should we wait for them here?” I asked?
“No,” The Hammer answered. “They’re all much faster than we are when descending. They’ll catch and pass us by the time we get to the bottom of Schafer.
We turned right…and into a ferocious headwind.
The three of us took short turns pulling as we climbed and battled the wind. I thought to myself how incredibly unfair it is to be the largest person in a pace line.
I thought to myself how I didn’t want to spend a whole day fighting a hard wind like this.
I thought to myself how it would be really easy to turn left and ride the Mag 7 trail instead of riding the White Rim today.
“Hey,” I said, brightly, “What if we ride the Mag 7 trail today instead of White Rim?”
“That’s a good idea,” Ryan said.
“That’s not a good idea,” The Hammer said.
We kept going.
The wind got worse.
“I have nothing to prove,” I said to Ryan and The Hammer. “Let’s end this ride while we still can.”
“That sounds good,” said Ryan.
“We’re already out here; we may as well keep going and see if the weather improves,” said The Hammer.
We kept going. I thought about how cycling needs safewords: words that we use when we’re not joking around. When we seriously want to cut out this nonsense RIGHT THIS MOMENT.
We approached the toll booth, where we’d each need to pay $10 to continue on and do the ride.
“Oh, I’m afraid I forgot to bring any money,” said Ryan, cleverly.
“We only brought enough for us to get through,” I said, wishing I had also been smart enough to forget our money.
“It’s free pass day!” said the woman at the toll booth, helpfully.
Ryan said something, but it’s not the kind of word I generally allow in this blog.
Something Is Amiss
Let me say this: The Hammer was not being silly when she said that we should keep going and let everyone catch us as they descend the Schafer road. It’s a long, twisty, scary descent, and The Hammer and I aren’t good at that kind of thing.
We figured that by pressing on and staying ahead now, we’d all be together and could ride the rest of the White Rim.
And that’s how it should have been.
But that’s not how it was.
Instead, we got to the bottom of Schafer…and it was still just the three of us.
But the wind was Blowing. So. Hard.
“I just don’t want to wait around,” I said. “If we’re going to do this, let’s just keep going to Musselman’s Arch. They’ll catch us there while we eat.”
And so we went, the three of us, fighting the wind. Heads down. All three of us wondering where everyone else was. And at least two of us wondering how we had gotten into this mess.
We got to Musselmans. We ate. We looked at the arch. We took pictures.
We even took time to take silly pictures.
But neither Kenny nor Lucas nor Heather nor Kathleen appeared.
And in fact, we would never see them again that day.
Which seems like a pretty good spot for us to pick up in the next installment of this story.
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