When you are going downhill, you can stop working and yet keep going; perhaps you’ll even go faster. You can take short breaks on level ground, too. You can, amazingly, even coast uphill briefly.

You cannot, on the other hand, coast at all when running. A fact I, until this past weekend, never really fully comprehended.

26.2 miles is a long way to go without getting to coast. Really long.

Foreshadowing

The last Saturday before the marathon, The Runner and I decided that we’d try to get in a big run mileage-wise, but would skip the big climbs and descents we’d been focusing on. By doing a flat 18 miles, we thought we’d have a good idea of what kind of day we’d have when running the marathon. And we did fine, finishing the eighteen-mile run in exactly three hours.

But the next day I was sore. Left hip flexor pain. And it hadn’t gone away — not really — by Friday night.

Also, the weather was a little uncertain. Normally a hot, dry place even in the dead of Winter, Death Valley had been getting rain and snow. So I brought a huge amount of gear — the clothes I’d need for a Summer run, a Winter run, or anything in between.

It rained most of the drive — through Saint George, through Arizona, through Las Vegas and into Death Valley.

The cactus looked very confused.

Auspicious Beginning

The morning of the marathon was overcast and humid, but not raining. Not yet, anyway. Independently, The Runner and I arrived at identical dressing decisions: long sleeve light wool base layer, Fat Cyclist vest, wool socks, and shorts. I also wore a light wool beanie. The Runner did not, seeing as how she has hair.

We figured we’d be good in cold or rain with that combination. If the clouds cleared and it got warm, we were screwed.

We boarded the bus to the start of the race, and then the wind picked up. And it got cold. We huddled together, wondering if maybe it would be OK if we just started running a little early. Nobody would begrudge us a head start, right?

Then, almost exactly one minute before the race began, I needed to pee. Badly.

“I’ll be right back,” I told The Runner. “These things always start late anyway.”

When I came out of the outhouse, it was to the sight of everyone running down the dirt road. I had missed the start of the race.

I swear, this has happened to me in dreams, but I would never have thought that I would ever miss a race start in real life.

With the odd thought that I was currently in last place, I began chasing the field. Juking left and right, I passed the back of the field, looking for blue shorts, a white vest over a black wool shirt, and a white cap with a ponytail coming out the back.

There she was. On the left side, slowly running so I could catch her, and looking back often, wondering whether I’d ever catch up. It was her first kind move in what would eventually be a countless number of kind moves during the race.

Settling Into a Groove

The first mile of this otherwise flat course is downhill. The combination of gravity, embarrassment-fueled adrenaline, and start-of-race eagerness made me ramp up the pace. “Slow down, Fatty,” The Runner said. “This race has just begun.”

Yes, she really does call me Fatty sometimes. In spite of the fact that I’ve asked her to please call me “sir.”

I slowed down, and we settled into a comfortable — or what passes for comfortable when one is running — nine minute pace, where both of us are able to talk.

We had decided during the bus ride to the starting line that the theme of the conversation for this race would be “early childhood.” So we traded stories about friends, where we grew up, and pets. The miles slipped by quickly, and I was happy to note — several times in fact — that I was enjoying myself

Looking at my virtual training partner on my GPS (we had set them for a 4:30 target time), I could see we were ahead and building a strong lead.

A few drops of rain fell on us. Maybe ten, all told. But it was cold enough that I was glad for the Smartwool baselayer the whole day.

Looking Around

I have an assertion to make now. All wilderness, no matter what kind, is interesting and beautiful. I do not believe there is such a thing as ugly wilderness. Based on things I had read about this course and Death Valley in general, I halfway expected to come upon the first exception to this rule.

But Death Valley is no exception. Running through the bed of an ancient lake that stretched flat to the horizon, with salt crystals growing up at crazy angles, was remarkable to look at, and gave an impression of vastness that is entirely different from the vastness mountains or the sea convey. And it was definitely beautiful.

Then, as the lake bed gave way to desert and tenacious scrub, then to wiry, sparse trees, I was just amazed at the changes in scenery that had happened in just a few miles.

This wasn’t the landscape I had wanted to see. But it was definitely worth seeing.

The New Order

For the first eleven miles or so, The Runner and I ran side by side, talking most of the time. I made frequent optimistic speculation on how well things were going and our projected finishing time.

“We’re not even halfway there, Fatty,” The Runner reminded me.

“Can’t you please call me ‘Sir,’ as I’ve asked you to?” I wheedled.

Then, just after mile eleven, I noticed a change. It was about then that we started seeing the fast guys coming back on their return trip. The Runner would greet them with enthusiastic cheers. I would silently wave. Conserving energy.

And then The Runner began pulling away. “What’s up with that?” I thought. “Why would she be accelerating away from me?”

I checked my GPS. She wasn’t pulling away. I was dropping off.

I stepped it up, nearly catching her, and then falling back. This game of yo-yo continued all the way to the turnaround and beyond.

Still, in spite of my evident slowdown, I had good news: we had done the first half of the marathon in just under two hours. We were well ahead of the pace necessary to finish under 4:39. Heck, if we could just hang on to this pace, we’d finish the whole race in about four hours flat.

Keeping It Together. Sometimes.

At mile 15, I fell apart. My hip flexor had begun aching, and my legs were just so tired. I began formulating excuses for why I couldn’t finish the marathon. I highly recommend this technique, by the way, for a way to motivate yourself to not quit a race. Just try to come up with a good explanation for why you should quit. If you can’t put one together that sounds so good that you prefer it to the story you might be able to tell if you did finish the race, well, then you probably shouldn’t quit.

Still, I needed to stop running, even for just a minute. So I slowed to a walk, and hollered out to The Runner: “I need a break.”

Then, a tenth of a mile later, I started running again. Well, “running” is perhaps a little bit of a euphemism for what I was doing. Whatever it was, though, it was faster than walking, and I was able to turn in consistent eleven-minute miles with it.

And thus began my new marathon-completion strategy: run nine-tenths of a mile, walk a tenth.

And try to ignore the pain while I did it.

Honestly, I don’t believe I have ever looked at my GPS so frequently and so desperately as I did during the final ten miles of that run. Every third of a mile or so, I’d check the display again; had i got to my next walking break? No? OK, how about now? And how about now?

How To Fix Fatty. And How Not To.

The Runner had told me that she intended to stay with me for the entire marathon, and to her credit, she did. Even as my miles got slower and slower.

This, naturally, had the effect of turning the marathon into a bit of a lazy stroll for her. And she had energy to burn, which she expended in the following ways:

• Sticking her arms out like wings and zigzagging across the dirt road, making airplane engine noises.
• Running backward so she was facing me, and cheering me on by doing “a round of applause” for me (executed by sticking your arms straight out and waving them in a circle as you clap).
• Doing the “Watermelon cheer,” which is accomplished by pretending to eat a large slice of watermelon, then spitting out — rapidly — the pretend seeds.

As she did this, I discovered something valuable about myself, which I had not known before: Sometimes I have no sense of humor whatsoever.

“Please,” I said. “I need to do this my way.” I then went on to explain that I was in the pain cave, and that I would be retreating deep into it and not coming out for a while.

Adopting a new tactic, The Runner asked — around mile 17 or 18 I think — if I would like to hear her life story. “Yes, that would be great,” I said.

And so, for the next ninety minutes, The Runner babysat me to the finish line, just taking my mind off the run by talking to me.

If she hadn’t done that, I’m pretty sure I’d still be out there.

Big Finish

A strange effect of this course is that because there are no trees or hills for a big part of it, you can see huge distances. So at mile 23, I could see the buses at the start/finish line. It is so strange to be able to see things at that distance. It made me feel like I was much closer to the end of the race than I knew I actually was. I resolved to ignore them.

Which was a good resolution, because buses two miles away don’t look a lot closer than buses three miles away.

Little by little, we made it to the finish line. The final mile was uphill, and I had resolved to try to finish strong. The Runner and I accelerated.

And then, about fifty yards later, I decelerated. The Runner, however, kept going. “That’s good,” I thought, “She deserves to finish at least a little ahead of me after dragging me this far.”

But then she slowed to a walk until I caught up with her.

We crossed the finish line together, and I’m pretty sure I heard a spectator say, “Good one Fatty,” as we did. Thank you, whoever did that.

Our finish time was 4:27 — three minutes faster than our target time, and twelve minutes faster than my previous (i.e., seven years ago) finish time.

After I caught my breath, I asked The Runner why she waited for me at the end. “I waited for you the whole day,” she said. “It seemed silly to shoot ahead of you at the end.”

When you consider all this, you will probably not be especially surprised to learn The Runner and I are now engaged.

Afterward

By the end of the day after the race, I was sore. By Sunday morning my hip flexor was so sore I had a difficult time walking. I didn’t really feel injured per se — just sore; after a few minutes standing and walking, I would loosen up and could get around, easily walking like I was no more than ninety five years old.

By this morning — Monday — things have improved even further; I can now walk as if I were no more than eighty.

But I daresay it’ll be a few days before I run again.

PS: Those of you who bet or otherwise incentivized me (you’ll find your bets here), please click here to donate to my 2010 Seattle LiveStrong Challenge. Thanks!

I will explain more in my writeup this Monday.

For the record, that’s twelve minutes faster than my previous marathon time, seven years ago.

Those of you who ought to be paying, please get your wallets ready.

And now I believe I need to sleep for the rest of the day.

You should be able to read the race writeup on Monday. Provided, of course, that I write it by then.

Like most everyone else in the world, I have heard of The Secret, the book that promises untold wealth, health, and perfectly-styled hair on a daily basis…as long as you buy the book. Like most everyone else, I was curious what secret The Secret contains.

And like most everyone else, I looked on Wikipedia to find out, where I learned that the secret of The Secret is that if you think about something in the right way — whether it be an event or an object or the removal of the letters “C” from the English language — the universe attaches other similar thoughts and forces to your thought, your thought gathers force like a giant thought-snowball, and then the thing you thought about will happen.

Which is really awesome. Because I hate redundant letters.

However, since — to my dismay — I did not master the secrets of The Secret by reading the Wikipedia article, I went ahead and downloaded the Kindle version of the book to my phone, and read it as quickly as possible, provided “as possible” means “whenever I was in line at the grocery store, or whenever I needed to use the bathroom for an extended period of time.”

And you know what? You can probably do just fine with reading the Wikipedia article.

Which is not to say, however, that The Secret does not work. It does! For example, I am going to, right now, think about eating the Twix Bar I have here.

And now I am eating it.

Freaky, isn’t it?

But The Secret has a dark underbelly. Yes it does. And that dark underbelly is that if you don’t formulate your thoughts correctly, you may get the opposite — or worse, a strange tangent — of what you were hoping for!

I call this “The Universe as a Trickster Genie” theory.

Specifically, The Secret tells us that the universe is a little bit stupid, in that it doesn’t get negatives. And I don’t mean that it doesn’t get double-negatives, which would be understandable, because who doesn’t have trouble with those from time to time?

I mean that it actually doesn’t hear negatives at all.

So, for example, if I were to think to myself, “I am not going to eat another Twix bar,” the universe just picks up on the “eat” and “Twix bar” part. And — get this — right now I am eating another Twix bar.

Oh, it is so delicious.

Thanks, universe, for making me eat another Twix bar even when I thought I shouldn’t.

And also, now I guess I understand why I’m seeing more of the letter “C” than I used to.

The Secret and Cycling

Now that you are — as I am — convinced of the power of The Secret, you are almost certainly asking yourself, “How can I use The Secret to become an extremely awesome cyclist? And how can I be certain to formulate my thoughts correctly, so the universe doesn’t go pulling some wacky prank on me?”

It’s a natural question, and I will now teach you the things you must think — along with the things you must not — in order to leverage The Secret in your riding.

To Win a Race:

• Do: Imagine yourself going very fast, crossing a finish line. And be sure to also imagine nobody else in front of you, and lots of people behind you. And be sure to imagine yourself crossing the correct finish line, or you might wind up winning a completely different race. And you might also want to imagine a calendar nearby with the current date on it, or you might win the race, but as the sole participant in the Octogenerian category, 55 years from now.
• Do NOT: Imagine the problems you might have that might obstruct your win. For example, do not imagine yourself with a mechanical. Do not imagine yourself with a showtune running endlessly through your head. Do not imagine yourself being passed by me. Except now I have already made you imagine all of those things, and I am going to totally beat you when we race.

To Avoid a Crash

• Do: Think of yourself riding upright, in every possible terrain. Think of the road being empty. But do not think in terms of “devoid of crazy drivers,” because then you’re still thinking about — and therefore attracting — crazy drivers. Just think of a nice empty road. And go ahead and imagine ice chests on the side of that empty road, spaced every 100 feet or so and filled with the beverage of your choice. Oh, and imagine ice, too, because the universe needs you to be specific.
• Do NOT: Think of the word “crash.” Ever. It doesn’t even matter if you think of the word “Don’t” before you think the word “crash.” You still thought of crashing. Also, you should probably not stop wearing a helmet. Because there may be someone out there who is thinking of you having a crash, and maybe that someone is better at The Secret than you.

To Handle a Crash in the Event That You’re Having One Even Though You Thought You Had Done a Pretty Good Job of Imagining Not Having a Crash

• Do: As you fly through the air toward the tree, boulder, road, or cinderblock wall, imagine pillows. Lots and lots and lots of fluffy pillows. And it may not be a bad idea to imagine an ambulance on its way, just in case the pillows don’t arrive on time.
• Do NOT: Imagine yourself hovering in the air, magically defying the laws of gravity. The universe is totally not cool with people spiting its laws, and will slap you down even harder. Don’t go upsetting the universe, people. Also, do not imagine yourself lying in a broken, crumpled heap, because that’s counterproductive. Besides, you’ll have time for that later.

To Get a New Bike

• Do: Imagine yourself with a new bike. Be really specific about the bike though — know the brand, the model, the year, the size. Everything. Also, imagine that you obtained it legally, because otherwise the trickster universe might just plop one in your hands, but it’s stolen, and some of your local authorities may not really understand The Secret as well as they should. Also, imagine that it’s yours, and not that you’re just washing it for a friend or something.
• Do NOT: Imagine what your significant other is going to say when s/he sees you coming home with yet another new bike. In fact, you may want to do some pre-emptive counter-imagining around that scenario.

To Lose Weight

• Do: Imagine yourself thin and ripped. Imagine yourself buying all new cycling clothes. Imagine yourself a blur of motion as you climb your favorite killer hill.
• Do NOT: Imagine yourself not eating. Because the universe will ignore the “not” part and will make you eat. But also, don’t imagine yourself eating, because — of course — that’s where the problem began in the first place, isn’t it? But remember, you should not stop eating altogether, because that brings problems of its own. Like starvation, for example. Wow, this Secret thing is turning out to be pretty darned tricky.

To Get Awesome Quads

• Do: Imagine yourself with my quads.
• Do NOT: Imagine me wearing a big floppy sombrero, because that would be a mean trick to play, especially since I’m letting you have my quads and stuff.

Really, I’m just gettng started here. I also have very useful tips I can give you on what to think (and what to not think) on how to spin circles, how to ride a clean line, how to keep your chain lubed, and how to avoid broken glass. And much, much more.

But to get that, you’re going to need to buy my upcoming book, The Secret and Cycling, which I am write now imagining getting a big fat publishing contract for.

And I’m imagining it already being written, too.

PS: Whoever it was that imagined me wearing fake elephant ears, an orange tutu, and these clown shoes, cut it out.

By having a different course each year, it becomes difficult for us to really compare the winner of one Tour to another.

But in pro cycling, that’s pretty much normal. Which makes me think: are there any other sports where the most-well-known annual event is actually a completely different event each year? I can’t think of any.

So, you see, that’s why I don’t ride in any of the Grand Tours.

On the other hand, each year I do the Leadville 100, which has seen two minor course changes — one having to do with bandwidth, the other having to do with safety — in the thirteen years I’ve ridden it. It makes an excellent yardstick of my fitness for the year.

And I like doing the same rides — whether road or mountain — several times each year, for kind of the same reason. Whenever I ride the Alpine Loop, I’m not just getting a good ride, I’m taking a ride down (but first, up) memory lane.

Same thing goes with Mt. Nebo. And Frank. And Squaw Peak. And Jacob’s Ladder.

And Tibble. Especially Tibble. When I found out that there’s some rerouting at the base of the climb, I nearly cried.

OK, I cried.

My point — and I’m as surprised to be making a point as you are — is that when I know and am planning on a particular ride, I think about that ride. I get to the point where I’m no longer looking forward to a ride; I’m now looking forward to that ride.

And any variation from it takes some getting used to.

Sometimes, of course, it can’t be helped. A road or trail is closed. Partway through the ride someone in the group has a massive mechanical. Weather or road conditions force the group in a different direction.

It’s OK, I don’t whine about it. At least not very much, and I try to conceal my whining behind semi-oblique sarcasm.

But still, it’s a bummer.

The Death Valley Trail Marathon: Rerouted

So if I get a little hangdog and have to adjust to the change when a group ride changes course, consider how I felt when I got the following email yesterday from the Death Valley Trail Marathon organizer:

Due to rain, snow and ice, the Titus Canyon Road has been closed by the Park Rangers. The event will be held on the alternate course along Westside Road. You can view the new course map online here.

The new course is a thirteen-mile out-and-back (as opposed to a point-to-point) on a dirt-and-gravel road (as opposed to in the beautiful wilderness of Titus Canyon), is almost perfectly flat (as opposed to twelve miles of climbing, followed by fourteen miles of descending), and the entire thing actually happens below sea level.

You know you are feeling disappointed when the most obviously exciting thing about a course is its peculiar altitude.

Now, I want to be clear: I am not angry about this course change. This is not the first time this has happened on this course, and the organizer went out of its way to make it clear in the sign-up: about a third of the time, weather forces a route change.

So again: I am not angry.

But I am bummed. Which means I have a decision to make.

Factors Considered

Last Saturday, The Runner and I ran 18 miles. I was tired at the end, but I was not demolished. I’m pretty sure that I can run a marathon this Saturday, and I want to try.

After all, I’ve been training for it for a whole six weeks. I don’t want to throw away all that preparation.

But do we drive eight-plus hours (each way) to do a flat dirt road marathon? Here are the things I’m considering:

• The Bet: A couple weeks ago, more than a hundred of you gave me an excellent incentive to do this race: around $4000 worth of bets. The problem is, the premise of the bet is messed up now. I can still do the Trail Valley Marathon, but that marathon no longer has 2000 feet of climbing, nor does it have 5000 feet of descending. If, on the other hand, I do the modified version of this race, I think it will actually be harder for me; I was counting on that fourteen miles of downhill (and net elevation change of -3000 feet) to help my time.
• The Alternatives: A marathon is 26.2 miles, and can be anywhere. A trail marathon is 26.2 miles on dirt, and can be anywhere. If we choose, I’ll bet The Runner and I could cobble together a trail marathon that is closer to where we live and closer in elevation gain / loss to what the original Death Valley Marathon was. Or we could pre-run the St. George Ironman course in its entirety. That would be helpful to The Runner, and with way more than 2000 feet of climbing, should easily satisfy the spirit of the bet.
• The Scenery: Death Valley really is a place everyone should see. I was excited to show The Runner the Devil’s Golf Course, as well as the Artist’s Palette. Plus, the marathon actually goes through the Devil’s Golf Course, which I think could be a surreal experience worth having. On its own merits — if we had planned for this kind of marathon in the first place, in other words — this course might be cool to do.
• The Drive: It takes at least eight hours to get to Death Valley. That’s a long drive. The thing is, though, I actually see this as a plus. A good audiobook can make a long drive a really great thing. (Audiobook fans: feel free to use the comments section to recommend an audiobook you’ve liked.)
• The Cognitive Dissonance: There’s a good chance it will rain during the Death Valley Trail marathon itself. The strangeness of being cold and rained on in the hottest, driest desert in the U.S. sounds pretty interesting to me.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do. And The Runner is as stymied as I am.

By all means, Internet, share your wisdom with us. For we are baffled.

So if you have been thinking about getting a t-shirt, or a whole clutch of bottles, or a vest, or a hat, some shorts, or some arm warmers, or some stickers, now’s a good time to do it.

You’ll be getting some stylishly self-deprectating clothes (or other accessories) and fighting cancer at the same time. Like you’re some kind of multitasking genius or something.

You’ll be both feared and admired by your peers. Because, after all, who doesn’t fear and admire a person who is so devastatingly self-confident that s/he is completely unconcerned about wearing something that says “Fat Cyclist” on it.

Or maybe you’ve wanted to get the wool Trainer, but you’ve been freaked out by how expensive it is. Well, first off, it’s actually below the MSRP, and the manufacturer isn’t all that excited about the price we’ve set. And second, with 25% — that’s $47.50 — of the cost going to LiveStrong to fight cancer, maybe the price doesn’t sting quite so much.

Oh, and there’s one Fat Cyclist item I think you’ll definitely want to pick up. Last year’s armwarmers — black with a white and pink accents — are on sale for $10. That’s way below what Twin Six paid for them. I think they accidentally added an extra zero to the order when they had them made and now just want to get them gone. At this price, you should probably pick up three pair, so as you lose them (armwarmers have an attrition rate similar to socks), you’ll still have plenty.

And while you’re shopping, take a look at the rest of the site. Twin Six is having its big annual Spring Sale, and everything’s marked way down. T-shirts for $16, 2009 jerseys are $45. It’s a good time to stock up on your ride and post-ride clothes for this Spring and Summer.

(Oh, and don’t tell anyone, but there are even a couple of 2009 t-shirts on sale for $6 [this one and this one. Madness!)

An Open Letter to the Guy Riding His Bike in the Cold and Wind and Snow and Slush and Rain

Dear Guy I Saw Riding Last Sunday Afternoon,

I think we can agree that we, as cyclists, need to stick together. We need to have each other’s backs, so to speak (although now that I think about it, I don’t think it makes very much sense for cyclists to ever be back-to-back). With that in mind, I think you owe me an apology.

You see, it was a very cold day. And snowy / slushy / rainy. And the roads were wet, trending to icy. No doubt about it, it was clearly not a day to go riding. And so, using the logic for which I am (justly) well-known, I did not go riding. Instead, I went for a nice drive up American Fork Canyon, just to get a sense of when it will be rideable.

The Runner was along for the ride, as we had a couple hours to kill before it would be time to fire up the grill and make burgers, for which I am (again, justly) well-known.

From the heated-seat comfort of the BikeMobile, I commented with authority and machismo, “Well, this road’s unrideable.”

And then you came around the bend. Riding. You looked up, smiled, and waved.

I’m pretty sure that your smile and wave were perfectly friendly, but if it’s OK with you, I’m going to imagine it as being malevolently smug, because that makes it a little bit easier for me to live with myself.

The Runner looked at me and observed, “So there’s a real cyclist.”

I had no response at all. Not then, not now. I’m 40 hours into a state of flummox, with no end in sight.

Imagine, if you can, Guy Riding Last Sunday Afternoon, how puny I felt. How very, very ahsamed. And, above all, how angry.

Yes, angry.

I’m angry because I now have to adjust my self image, from “steely-gazed, square-jawed, focused and resolved cyclist” to “fair weather pansy rider.” That’s quite an adjustment to make, and not a particularly pleasant one.

Thanks a lot, Guy Riding Last Sunday Afternoon.

And it’s not like this was the first time something like this has happened. There are other people who are like you. People who, in spite of the fact that I find the weather too cloudy / wet-road-y / cool / breezy to go ride, are going out and riding.

This has to end. Right now.

From this point forward, I would like you — and people like you — to please not go riding until I give the signal that it won’t make me feel like less of a man to see you out there. The signal will comprise the following:

• I will post something on my blog saying it’s OK to go outside
• I will emerge from my house, pasty white and fleshy
• I will ride my bike

That time has not yet arrived.

Guy Riding Last Sunday Afternoon, let me close with an appeal. In this world, we all have to accommodate others. Or more specifically, everyone else has to accommodate me. Please, Guy Riding Last Sunday Afternoon, don’t be so selfish. The next time it’s cold and / or ugly outside, think about someone besides yourself (i.e., me), and stay inside.

I think we’ll both be glad you did. Or at least I will, and that’s what really matters.

Kind Regards,

The Fat Cyclist

Why?

Well, because in the Best Writing and Blog of the Year categories, I’m up against blogs which have crossed what I call The Professional Threshold — blogs where people either do or could make a living with their blogs (I, on the other hand, make just enough money with my blog to be a nuisance at tax time). For Blog of the Year, I’m against Pioneer Woman – which gets my monthly traffic, cubed, every single day. I’m also against The Huffington Post, which has an actual staff. Please vote for Pioneer Woman, because, honestly, she really does have the blog of the year. If not decade.

For the Best Writing category, I’m pitched against Pioneer Woman (again!), as well as Bike Snob NYC. I’d like you to vote for Bike Snob for this one, for a couple of reasons. First, he’s a genuinely good writer. Second, because it will make me feel better about myself when I ask you to vote for me (instead of him) for the Best Sports Blog category.

For the Best Sports category, I’m up against two friends: Bike Snob and Jill. Instead of being all humble and aw-shucks about it, I’m going to be honest: I really want you to vote for me. And so does my hero, Johan Bruyneel. That should be enough reason for anyone (Thanks, Johan!).

Click here to go to the Bloggies site, select your choices, do the ridonkulus captcha verification thingy, and then don’t forget to validate your vote when the email comes.

Sheesh.

One Week From Tomorrow

Next Saturday — February 6 — I will attempt the Death Valley Trail Marathon, after training for it just six weeks.

To my surprise, I feel pretty good about my chances.

Part of my optimism comes from the fact that last weekend, The Runner and I did a 15-mile run, from my house to about half a mile past the four-way stop at the top of Suncrest, and then back home. For those of you who aren’t locals, that means that after a three mile mostly-flat warmup, we climbed 1500 feet in 4.5 miles, then turned around and ran home. I had to walk for a minute during the last three miles, but only once, and only for a minute (during which The Runner peeled off to the side of the road and scooped a bunch of snow into her mouth).

Even with that big climb, we averaged almost exactly ten-minute miles. And the next day, though tired, I was not sore. Anywhere.

Tomorrow (Saturday) — a week from the marathon itself — we will run 18 miles, but this time it will be on mostly flat pavement.

I know, I know. The runners among you all know this is not advisable. That we’re not tapering here. But it will accomplish something much more important than a taper for me: running 18 miles on pavement, at high altitude, will give me confidence that I can run a trail marathon at low altitude.

The next part of my optimism comes from a pretty serious incentive I’ve rashly given myself: I have made $3902 worth of bets that I will beat my previous time (4:39, seven years ago) at this race.

Basically, if I run a good race, a bunch of you will have to donate around $3900 to my LiveStrong Challenge. If I fail or bail, then I need to come up with that $3900 myself.

I should point out here that when The Runner read about the bet I had just made in The Marathon Chronicles, Part II, she was not super-thrilled. “You know,” she said, “We had agreed that we were just going to cruise this thing. Run when we feel like it, walk when we feel like it. And now you’ve gone and made a hundred or so bets that you’re going to be fast.”

I shrugged and gave her a charming, apologetic smile. It was all I had to offer, defense-wise.

Ladies, please take a moment to sympathize for and pity The Runner. It cannot be easy to be in a relationship with a guy who makes pretty much everything he does into a public bet, a spectacle, or a farce.

My Ace in the Hole

The real reason I think I’ll do fine in the marathon next week is: I’m middle-aged.

Seriously, being middle-aged is a huge bonus in endurance events, whether you’re on a bike or on foot.

There are some important reasons why.

• You’ve accepted pain and repetitive drudgery as an aspect of your life. Probably, you’ve even embraced it as an indicator that you are in fact still alive. And if you’re really messed up, you even start seeking out pain and repetitive drudgery because you somehow have gotten it confused with feeling more alive. And by “you,” I of course actually mean “me.”
• It temporarily makes you feel less old. When I was a kid, I would — on impulse — sometimes run or ride my bike around the block, over and over, just for fun. Just because it felt great to be in motion. In general, I no longer have that impulse. I am quite content to sit for hours on end. However, once I get myself in motion, I find that I still like it, and that while it doesn’t make me feel like a kid, it at least makes me feel like less of an old fart.
• It’s the only way you’re going to beat the kids. A couple days ago, one of my daughters, knowing that I have been running lately, brought over one of her friends — a tiny, wiry little girl. And told me I had to race her. To the house across the street and back. OK, fine. I found, right there and then, that I am not able to run an impromptu sprint — by the end of the run my back hurt, and the kid beat me by about twenty feet. But I promise you that if we had made the run ten miles, I would have demolished that seven-year-old.
• You’re happy to discover you can still do something. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: when I said that, after my big crash at Leadville last year, I came away uninjured, I think I was probably wrong. As it turns out, six months later my left sitbone still hurts if I sit in a chair for more than half an hour. And when I run, my left foot lands flat, with a “slap” sound. And of course, I have other aches and pains. But when I do the repetitive motion of running or riding, I’m able to circumvent these aches and pains by using careful, pre-planned motions. Kind of like walking a minefield you’ve walked a hundred times before.

In short, endurance sports let me simulate athleticism in spite of being a creaky and achy old man. And that is why I will totally kick butt at the marathon next week.

Except I’m not entirely certain my list did much in the way of convincing myself.

The second reason I read Velonews is for the ads. I love the ads. Like the one of the guy in the bibshorts, shown to the right here (click the ad to see a larger version).

Looking at it, I can’t help but wonder:

• Did the photographer not understand that bibshorts are for biking, not running?
• Does “Design to follow the bio-mechanical movement of the rider” mean what I think it means? Specifically, that since these bike shorts — like all bike shorts — are made of stretchy fabric, that when you move, the bike shorts will also move? Wouldn’t it be awesome if they somehow neglected to include that feature and instead created bike shorts that were perfectly inflexible? They’re bike shorts and a body cast!
• You’re going to call out the “Gel leg gripper” as a feature? Really? I mean, if you’ve really run out of things to talk about but still need to fill up space, it’s customary to say “Much, much more!”
• If your shorts are all about the details, you may want to consider this detail: your leg gripper is having a tourniquet effect on the model, so that the part of the leg above the gripper is ballooning out dangerously. How soon ’til it pops? We can only speculate.
• I hesitate to bring up this final point, but the bibshorts model seems undecided about where to put a certain part of himself. Whereas most cyclists go either left or right, the model has gone with vertical. Or perhaps he’s just really excited about getting work. Or maybe it’s a feature of the shorts?

The ad then finishes up with the peeled-up cross-section of the chamois, which I believe is required for inclusion in all bike shorts ads by the powerful Bicycle Ad Consortium (BAC).

I Am Not Afraid of A Challenge

The VeloNews 2010 Buyer’s Guide (thanks for all that guidance, Lennard!) is chock-full of ads I love. I look at them, learn serious, important things about the world of cycling from them, and move on.

However, there is one particular ad that has defied me. That has not allowed me to observe, snark, and move on.

It is the full-page Speedplay ad on page 39 (click the ad to see a larger version):

Yes, that’s really the ad.

When I first saw it, I panicked. Then I turned the page. Then I turned back. Is this really an ad with a full page of text?

And not just text, but white-on-red text?

And not just white-on-red text, but in a tall, cramped font?

And not just white-on-red text in a tall cramped font, but all rammed together in a single, extremely wide paragraph?

Yes, that it what it is. Which makes me think: they do not want anyone to read this ad. It is so long and horrible to look at that Speedplay must have some reason for not wanting anyone to plow through the whole thing.

Like, maybe buried somewhere in there is instructions on how to find Jimmy Hoffa. Or the location of a vault containing untold riches. Or a recipe for an indescribably delicious key lime pie.

Regardless, I am confident that nobody, to this point, has ever read the entirety of this ad.

But I am going to, right now. And I am going to liveblog the experience.

The liveblog begins now.

05:30 - I’m settling down with the magazine. I’ve got a bowl of cold cereal (Honey Bunches of Oats) and half a grapefruit to sustain me. Will it be enough? I do not know.

05:35 - So far, I have discerned that Speedplay is serious about making the best pedals. Which is good news, because I do not want my pedal manufacturer to go about making the best pedals in some kind of jaunty, devil-may-care fashion.

05:42 - The next sentence has had me scratching my head in confusion for the past seven minutes: “We obsess about speed, power, biomechanics and security.” Who, in this case, is “we?” Do they mean everyone at Speedplay? Or just the guys who created the ad? Or are they trying to draw me in with them, to make me part of their “we?” I’m not ready for that kind of commitment, Speedplay.

05:47 - I just realized that both the Speedplay ad and the bibshorts ad mention biomechanics. Which causes me to think: “biomechanics” is the “ipsum lorem” of the bike ad world. I wonder if the BAC enforces the use of the word “biomechanics” in every ad. I intend to investigate. Later.

05:58 - Speedplay evidently, in addition to speed, power, biomechanics and security, also obsesses over user-friendliness, function, comfort, and durability. This causes me to wonder a few things.

1. Does Speedplay obsess about other things, too? Like, perhaps, having a complete Pokemon action figure set? Or always drinking the same brand of soda, no matter what? Or putting their clothes on in a certain order? The fact that they obsess about this many things indicates to me that they probably obsess about other things too.
2. Assuming (quite reasonably) that Speedplay is in fact obsessing over a whole crapload of stuff, have they considered that perhaps it’s time to get help?
3. Isn’t “function” really just an umbrella term for all the other things they’re obsessing about? It seems that they can maybe take this one off the list. This could be an important first step toward being less obsessive.

06:06 - Speedplay has now stopped telling me about the things it (they?) obsess about. Now they have moved on to telling me things they want me to see, know, feel, and so forth. For example, they want me to know that they have rethought pedals from the ground up. Which — since pedals don’t really ever touch the ground at all — seems to indicate they have more re-thinking to do.

06:09 - My cereal bowl is empty. My grapefruit is nothing but a juiceless rind, all juice squozen from it. And yet I am only 9% of the way through this ad. I shall fetch more cereal directly, and intend to open a 2-litre Diet Coke with Lime, which I will drink directly from the Bottle.

06:11 - OK, I think I can continue. Where was I? Ah yes. Speedplay wants me to feel how much lighter their pedals are compared to others. But then, alas, they do not actually make any comparisons at all. So I’m beginning to think Speedplay is toying with me.

06:14 - Speedplay is now telling me how aerodynamic their pedal is. Which brings up a question: Is there any cyclist, in the entire world, who is so fast and rides in such a perfect position that his pedal aerodynamics is a factor, but who also is not already sponsored? Honestly, in my entire cycling career, never has it occurred to me that I could have won a race if only my pedals weren’t holding me back so much.

06:17 - I think I should mention, by the way, that I actually do use Speedplay pedals. And I have for more than ten years. They’re fantastic road pedals and I highly recommend them. But this ad is making me think of switching.

06:20 - I am now on the fourth sentence in a row that begins with “We want.” I’m beginning to develop a mental picture of the Speedplay personality, and the two dominating attributes are:

• Obsessive
• Needy

06:24 - Speedplay apparently now wants me to measure their stack height to see how much closer my foot is positioned to the spindle for better power transmission. Which, frankly, seems like a lot of them to ask of me. Do they really expect me to measure the stack height on their pedal/cleat combination (like I have the equipment for that), then go do the same thing with other pedal manufacturers and get back to them with my findings? Measure it yourself, Speedplay. I’m busy right now, trying to make sense of an incomprehensibly long, obsessive, needy, and demanding ad.

07:18 - Sorry, fell asleep. I need to start crossing out the sentences I’ve read so I don’t keep losing my place.

07:23 - Speedplay has just told me, and I quote: “We want you to see how much further you can safely lean into a turn without scraping the pedals.” Which means, if I understand them correctly, that they want me to corner harder and harder until I either chicken out or crash on everyone else’s pedals, and then do the same thing on theirs. And once I’ve done that — well, of course I’ll be dead long before I complete this battery of tests, but suppose I managed to survive — I will ascertain that Speedplay lets me lean in much further.

Speedplay, I believe you are asking too much of your prospective customers.

07:40 - Been drinking too much Diet Coke. Had to take a break.

07:42 - Oh good, Speedplay has stopped asking me to conduct experiments that require sensitive equipment and an engineering degree, are life-threatening and reckless, or both. Now they want me to notice the stuff that is actually really good about their pedals: they’re double sided so they’re easy to get into, and they lock in nice and secure.

Which, you know, is what some people might call their “key differentiator.” And it might be all the information this ad really required. Really clever of them to bury it it in the exact middle of the ad.

07:49 - Speedplay wants us to see that their premium pedals use rustproof stainless steel and Ti components “for durability and aesthetics.” Which makes me ask: just your premium pedals? So your low-end pedals are going to be ugly, won’t last, and will rust? Sign me up!

07:59 - Speedplay, now into the final third of its ad, is telling us that the “pedal’s engagement edges are made of hardened alloy steel instead of plastic.” That’s nice, I suppose, but no more reassuring than if Trek said, “Our carbon fiber bikes are made of carbon fiber instead of aluminum foil.” Saying “we didn’t use crappy materials” shouldn’t be considered a selling point.

08:05 - I don’t think I’m going to make it. This is just too darned hard. Tell my kids I love them.

08:08 - NO! I will not quit! I am going to finish reading this ad! No matter what.

08:22 - I keep trying to make sense of this sentence: “We want you to see for yourself that Speedplay pedals offer an unmatched package of performance features and benefits but not at the expense of strength, safety, or functionality.” I’ve read that sentence nine times now, and just can’t figure it out. Do performance features and benefits usually come at the expense of strength, safety and functionality? Aren’t performance features and benefits part of strength, safety and functionality?

And most important of all, why do Speedplay pedals come in unmatched packages? Like, do they come with two left pedals, one of which is red and the other which is turquoise? And maybe only one cleat?

Please, Speedplay. Please start providing matched packages.

08:32 - Finally, I am at the last sentence: “We want you to know that we’re serious about making the world’s most technically advanced pedal systems.”

Hey, waitasec. That’s what they said at the beginning of the ad, just longer and more obtuse.

08:36 - I did it. I finished the ad. It took 3:02, but I did it. I pushed through, keeping my eye on the finish line and the glory that comes with it.

Sure, there were moments when I thought I was a goner. But I gritted my teeth and kept reading.

Someday, I will tell my grandchildren. And they will be proud of grandpa, and that he — and he alone — read the entire Speedplay ad.

But I only write poetry when my heart overflows. When there is a food that truly matters. In the past, I have published only one other ode, in free verse. It was to the clementine.

Today, I shall honor you with poetry again.

It is not for the calcium
That I know for sure
Because I get plenty of calcium
From ordinary milk
And from eating Ben and Jerry’s ice cream
(New York Super Fudge Chunk is my favorite)

Why then, o chocolate milk
Do I love you beyond measure?
Why do I treasure you
Above all other drinks?
I ask rhetorically of course
For I in fact have many reasons

I read somewhere
On a long-forgotten day
That you are an excellent recovery drink
And that, I must confess
Was the reason I began buying you
At least that was my cover story

And it is true!
You are delicious after a ride
Or, as of late, after a run
It matters not whether the day is hot
Or if it is cold
You are delicious and make me feel better

I lift you up
Still in your one-gallon container
And I drink my fill
And my children cannot do anything about it
Because I’m the dad
That’s why

And let us be clear
What I mean by chocolate milk
Which is the pure expression of creaminess
That comes cold in the dairy case
And is not powder that semi-dissolves in plain milk
That stuff is nasty

What makes you so delicious?
What makes you so creamy and good?
What does “From cows not treated with rBST” even mean?
And how is it possible that 1% milkfat
Still seems so thick and wonderful?
You are as mysterious as you are perfect   

O chocolate milk
I feel I have slighted you
For thus far I have treated you as if
You were nothing more than a post-ride drink
But in truth I drink you all the time
And you are incredible when used to make Oreo milkshakes

O chocolate milk
I drink you

PS: After this literary tour de force, I feel I hardly need ask, but I will anyway. Vote for me in the 2010 Bloggies. I’m nominated in the following categories: Best Sports Weblog, Best Writing of a Weblog, and Weblog of the Year. Click here to vote. Or, I swear, I will write more poetry.

PPS : My sister Lori — over at LestWeForgiveProject.com — needs your love-and-heartbreak stories for an art project she’s working on. In her words:

I am an artist who Needs to Know. As luck would have it, I have found some nice and seriously hot-looking indie people who also Need to Know at Urban Alchemist, a shop full of handmade stuff in Brooklyn. And so, we need your story of heartbreak and glory. I want to illustrate them, memorialize them on tiny carved pine plaques, hang them by the dozen in the shop window, and witness the undisguised shadenfruede of passersby and schoolchildren.

Is this wrong? Would you willingly participate? Ok, then.

These plaques are tiny, so I issue a challenge to you, the heartbroken and triumphant amongst Fatty’s readers: Keep your heartbreak or triumph down to six words. Hemingway did it in what he considers his best story. You can too? Yes, you can too.

Click here to read more, see more plaques-of-woe and leave your own (very very) short story.

Why I haven’t wanted to, however, is a little more complex.

So today I’m going to try to explain what’s going on in my head, and I’ll deal with the feedback as it comes.

The Short Version Is Not Short

I could — if I were the kind of person who keeps things short and sweet — simply say, “I am happy.”

However, if I were the kind of person who keeps things short and sweet, I would not be the kind of person who could write — pretty much daily — about riding a bicycle for close to five years.

And besides, how I feel is a little more complicated than straight-up happiness.

It’s been about 5.5 months since Susan passed away. So when I say “I’m happy,” I worry. About a few things:

• Should I be happy so soon?
• Will people think I am a bad person for being happy?
• If I’m happy, does that mean I’ve changed?

Honestly, I haven’t worked through the answers to all of these questions to my satisfaction. But I’m going to try to explain where I stand right now.

Should I Be Happy So Soon? Am I a Bad Person for Being Happy?

Maybe it’s a guy thing. Maybe it’s just a “me” thing. But regardless of how I feel, when asked I tend to dial it back a few notches. Back when Susan was extremely ill and getting worse, I would say, “I’m doing OK.”

When in fact I was far from OK. I was exhausted. Frightened. Alone.

Now, on the other hand, when people ask me how I’m doing, I say, “I’m doing OK.” In spite of the fact that I am, once again, far from OK. It’s just that I’m far from OK in the other direction. I’m energized. Hopeful. In love with someone who has known me for fifteen years and loves doing the same stuff I do.

So why don’t I have an easy time saying that? I think it’s for a couple of reasons. The first is that I expect people will think I am doing Susan’s memory an injustice. She died just last Summer, after all. And some people have in fact said this, although — interestingly — they always do so under cover of anonymity.

The people who know me in real life, on the other hand — and by “in real life,” I mean in-person, as well as those of you who have followed me long enough that when I meet you in the physical world I still don’t have any new stories to tell you — often make the observation that the day Susan died was hardly the day that I started the grieving process. That it was hardly the day that our relationship changed.

That day was probably sometime around three years ago, when I began the transition from husband to nurse. As I grieved daily over the loss of Susan’s physical and mental ability. As each month brought a new problem without a solution. As she died over the course of years.

Over the course of a few years, as I took care of her every physical need — well beyond what I’ve described or will ever describe here — Susan’s and my relationship deepened in some ways, and changed in others. It’s inevitable, I now think, and even desirable. I consider it my life’s finest accomplishment that I was able to adapt to be whatever she needed.

Meanwhile, of course, Susan could not take care of me in any way whatsoever. Not because she didn’t want to — she did– but simply because she could not.

Which is the heart of the Caretaker’s dilemma: finding the strength to give continuously, without expectation of getting anything back. I really believe that it’s possible, that anyone can find that strength for however long you need to find it.

I guess my point is that by the time Susan passed way, I had been grieving for years. And her loss, in my case, meant that I could finally stop grieving. That I could finally stop worrying about in what way I would lose her next.

It also put me in a position that — as surprised as I was to find it so quickly — I appreciated someone (who is a nurse by profession, maybe not coincidentally) who wants to — and is able to — give back. Someone who understands what I’ve gone through. Someone who knew and misses Susan, too.

So to some people, yes, it must seem like I’m happy very soon after my wife’s passing. From my point of view, though, a dose of happiness has been a long time coming, and I doubt there are many people who appreciate it more.

Have I Changed?

Something I have seen in comments pretty frequently lately is that I have changed. This bothered me — still bothers me, really — because I don’t want to become the jerk some people evidently think I am becoming (or have become).

Here’s how I make sense of it so far.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I am not taking care of a very sick wife. A few months ago, for the first time in my life, I had an immediate family member pass away. For the first time in 20+ years, I am a single man. For the first time in 21+ years, I am dating.

When I consider all this, I find myself wondering how weird it would be if I didn’t act a little bit differently right now. If, in spite of a huge cascade of giant life events, I continued to act exactly the same.

So yeah, I’m probably acting a little differently. But I would estimate that difference at about 1%. It makes me wonder if the people who see me as being a lot different really knew me at all before the horror of last Summer. That was when I was being a lot different. If the way you expect me to behave for the rest of my life is the way I behaved as my wife was dying, well, I just don’t have anything to offer you.

Still, there has been one difference in my behavior I’ve noticed that I am not very proud of. Namely, in the past month or so I have not done much in the fight against cancer.

The reason for this, I think, is not too different from the reason I recently had a strong aversion to putting together a big program for a religious event for my daughters: putting together a program — any program — reminded me too strongly of putting together the program for my wife’s funeral.

People hounded me about my daughters’ program, saying I was late, that I needed to get moving on it, and I just didn’t want to. And I was too embarrassed to explain why.

It’s been kind of like that with the cancer fundraising stuff. Last year, that was my tether, my way of making something good out of something bad.

For the past little while, it’s been a strong reminder of what was a darker and more difficult time than I’ve ever told anyone. I’ve wanted, lately, a break. To have fun and concentrate on telling jokes. To stop thinking and talking about cancer.

But it was just a break. I will not ever stop that fight, and you should expect to hear more from me on that in the very near future.

And In Conclusion…

Seriously, have you ever had a more long-winded explanation of why someone has the right to be happy?

To my great dismay, however, we had a nice big snowstorm Friday night, rendering the streets an icy, snowy, slushy mess on Saturday. Not ideal for a big run.

I was kidding about the “great dismay” part, by the way.

I called The Runner, asking for an alternative workout idea.

“There’s a spin class at Gold’s Gym in an hour. We could do that,” she said.

I was intrigued. You see, there are three forms of cycling that I have never tried, but have always been curious about, mostly because they seem so bizarre. These include:

• Unicycles
• Recumbents
• Spin class

Well, maybe it was time to tick the “done” box on one of those items. I found an ancient pair of road shoes I knew had SPD cleats, put together a complete, matching Fat Cyclist kit — I know it’s important to look good when going to a Gold’s Gym — and headed out the door.

I Inspect Everything

The Runner and I got into the spin room about thirty minutes early. There were about 90 stationary bikes, all adjustable in pretty much every direction.

“Oh good, we get a place near the fan,” the Runner said, as she picked the bike closest to that fan. I chose the bike next to her. I did not realize at the time how incredibly important that would turn out to be.

I busied myself setting the saddle height. Then the saddle position. Then the bar height. Then the bar position. As others trickled in, I noticed that nobody else adjusted anything but the saddle height. Evidently, I’m a bike fit snob. Or just a goofball.

The Runner and I started warming up — high cadence, low effort. Then I turned the little knob that controls the resistance. One half turn was all it took to go from virtually no resistance to completely locked up. Which meant, basically, that I’d be giving the knob little nudges when asked to increase or decrease my effort, instead of the big manly power-twists I thought would more accurately represent the change in how hard I was working.

Which meant that I’d be forced to use other methods to add drama to my spin effort:

• Dramatically squirting water from my bottle into my mouth, onto my head, and down my back
• Dramatically toweling my face off
• Dramatically gritting my teeth during maximum efforts

As we warmed up, I noticed one other guy, in full Pearl Izumi PRO kit, doing the same. I looked at his legs. Hairy. I waited until he made eye contact, then flexed my freshly-shaved quads. He looked down and away, deferentially. We both knew who was the alpha male in the room.

Then the instructor came in, and it was her turn to be inspected. The first thing I noticed was her legs.

No, not for that reason.

I noticed her legs because they were freakishly skinny. Seriously, her quads were no bigger than my calves.

And then she climbed up on her bike and started warming up. At which point it was all I could to not go over there and volunteer to help her get her position set up properly. Her saddle height put her legs at 35 degrees at maximum extension.

And then there was the cockpit. So cramped I was surprised her knees didn’t hit the bar with every rotation.

To my credit — and to The Runner’s relief — I refrained from going over and setting the bike up for the instructor.

I Give 110%, Which May Actually Have Been 92%

And then the spin session began.

The instructor took us on a virtual bike ride, having us adjust the resistance for climbs, sometimes standing up, sometimes sitting down, and sometimes increasing or decreasing our cadence.

All of which is fine, and pretty much what I expected.

But there were parts that were hard for me, as a cyclist, to get past. For example:

• She said we were riding on a mountain road, which definitely indicates a road bike. But then — when she wanted us to just use our legs, not our upper bodies — she’d have us stand up, go to high resistance, and tell us we were riding on a “swinging bridge,” which would probably be best handled on a BMX bike. In any case, on a swinging bridge I’d definitely stay seated and would go for high cadence, low effort riding so as to keep the side-to-side motion to a minimum.
• From time to time she’d let us know we were on singletrack, which made me start thinking about real singletrack, which made me wish desperately that I were not in a gym at all. In any case, now I’d need to be on a mountain bike, which made me think that this instructor needs to pick a better riding course, because it’s hard to pack three different bikes with me.
• Sometimes we were asked to “run” on the bike. I didn’t get this at all until I saw a few people swinging one arm at their sides. I tried this for about one half of a second before my ridiculosity meter went so far off the chart that I had to go back to both hands on the bar.
• We were supposed to put our hands behind our backs and ride sometimes. I have a feeling this would be frowned upon in a group ride.
• At high effort — when we were supposed to be at a 9 or 10 on a scale of 1 to 10 — the instructor would be turning such an incredibly slow cadence that she would have been a swerving mess on a real bike. (I wanted to raise my hand and volunteer it would be more efficient to turn a higher cadence at a lower resistance, but had the sense that this kind of feedback was not currently being sought.) Curious as to what it would feel like to have that much resistance on a bike, I tried ratcheting the tension until I was going at the same cadence as the instructor. Unfortunately, my legs are so powerful that the friction caused by the bike’s braking motion briefly set the wheel on fire. Fortunately, my sweat quickly dowsed the flames.

Throughout the session, the instructor called out the effort she wanted us to put out. “Go to a 9,” she would call out, which I would interpret as “you should feel like barfing but can probably hold it back.” And then she’d call out, “Now go to 10!” Which I would interpret as, “This should feel like a sprint finish at the end of a race and should not be sustainable for more than one minute, tops.”

And then she said, “Now go higher!”

“But I’m already at ten,” I thought. “I’m maxed out.” But just to see what would happen, I’d nudge the resistance up a hair.

And I was able to keep going.

So I nudged it again.

Still going.

So, evidently, my perceived maximum effort is really about my 85%. Which means I’ve been slacking a bit.

Okay, maybe a lot.

Catastrophe Averted

The thing about spin classes is that riding technique isn’t rewarded, or even encouraged. You can thrash around and pedal squares and ride with your hands behind your back, and that’s just fine.

Which means that if someone ever wants to go on a ride with you and uses “I’ve been to spin class a lot” as their justification for why they’re in good riding shape, you may want to keep your distance.

And so the irony is super sweet that I very nearly caused a multiple-bike pileup in the spin class.

It was during a standing, 30-second standing sprint, I think at level 7. I was putting in about a 7.28 effort, though, because that’s the kind of guy I am.

And then I pulled my left cleat out of the pedal on the upstroke.

My knee came up nearly to my chin and I leaned heavily and wildly to the right, very nearly crashing into The Runner. Which — I have to assume — would have caused her spin bike to fall over into the next person, causing a domino-style crashing cascade of spin bikes and humanity.

Which would have been embarrassing.

I Am Strangely Competitive

The Runner and I didn’t talk during the spin class. We did, however, have a competition…which she was likely unaware of, but which I’m sure she’ll be very excited to find out about right now.

The competition was called, “Who Sweats More?” And the rules were simple. Whoever had the larger diameter sweat puddle at the end of the spin class, wins.

She won. By a landslide. Or by the sweaty equivalent of a landslide, anyway.

Before I knew it, the 45 minutes was over. Which is odd in itself — 45 minutes on a bike, even at high effort, kind of feels too short.

My overall impression? spin classes might in fact be an interesting and fun way to change up your workout, and they probably burn a lot of calories in a short period of time.

But I really doubt they make you a better cyclist.

Running With the Runner

Since we had originally planned on running that morning, The Runner and I decided that after the spin class we should get on the treadmills and run for a bit. The Runner was not — according to her — feeling great, so we agreed to run for just a mile or so.

The Runner got a fifteen second head start, so right off the bat I had some catching up to do. Surreptitiously, I looked at her pace and distance, and kept increasing my speed to see if I could “catch” her.

We hit the mile mark. I hoped she would slow down to a walk.

She kept going.

So I accelerated, and eventually — just as we hit the two mile mark, caught up. Yes, victory was mine. Meanwhile, I was hoping hoping hoping she would slow down.

Which, mercifully, she did. Which is good, because I was about to find out what happens when you throw up on a treadmill. Which is interesting-sounding in the abstract, but not necessarily something you want to see close up.

As we got off and headed out the door, I decided I would not mention that I had caught her. Because, you know, just knowing that I did was enough.

Then The Runner said, “I saw you managed to catch me.”

“Oh, really?” I said, feigning surprise. “That’s interesting.”

“That’s really good,” she continued. “You should be proud.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” I allowed.

“Of course,” she concluded, “I was running on a 4% incline at the time.”

PS: If you’d do me a favor and vote for me for the 2010 Bloggies (Best Sports Weblog, Best Writing, Weblog of the Year categories), I’d appreciate it.