riding is my pcp

After riding every day for at least 2 hours since last Thursday, I was starting to feel it on Monday. Tuesday, I told myself I was going to enjoy my rest day. Instead I predictably paced around my apartment and was generally restless.
So yesterday, even with only 6 hours of sleep, I was going to ride. Besides, it was going to be something like 85F and gorgeous. Not too much wind, either. Perfect cycling weather!
Because I’m generally a wuss, I like to make up my flexible goals as I head out the door. Yesterday, I tentatively decided trying for that negative split [I’ve only managed an even split the past few days]. You know, as soon as my entire lower body stopped complaining.

That decision solidified as the ride progressed and all the kinks worked themselves out of my legs. I didn’t do so badly climbing some of the bigger hills, and I was cruising along at a nice clip once I hit South Street. Half zoned out in that happy place that cycling can take me, I kept thinking back to that Bicycling article, “Riding is My Ritalin.” Cool article, but as applied to me, riding’s more like my Paxil.
At a light, I drew up next to three women. I assumed they were all together, although one looked clearly more inexperienced than the other two. I said hello, then as the light turned green, kicked off. The woman next to me was faster, and she sped away from the other two cyclists [who I presumed were her friends]. Caught between her and the other two, and assuming she wanted to give me space to pass, I balled up to catch a draft off her until I could be on my way. But with cars behind us on the narrow road, I was stuck on her wheel. I could see her cadence changing as she shifted gears on the uneven road. I pressed my body onto my thighs, in the drops and elbows nearly hitting my knees to maintain the pace.
We hit a hill and I knew I was going to pull an asshole move. I was hoping I wouldn’t though.

No such luck. Halfway up the hill she slowed down, and for me it was either pass or tip over. I hammered past her, out of the saddle, and floored it. Not out of any motivation to prove anything to her, but with my terrible pace line skills, the cars, and the narrow lane, I didn’t want to be some douche-y wheelsucker.
I made decent time the rest of the way and bumped into a guy in a Boston Road Club jersey on an IF with downtube shifters.
“Hello,” I said. Then, “nice bike.”
IF guy said thanks, then we parted ways. A few minutes later, I hit my 15 miles [in less than 1 hr, no less!] and was excited about maybe getting home even faster. Still feeling the effects of cycling Paxil, I was actually in a good mood, humming along to Eminem on my iPod and checked out of reality.
Then, a voice drew up beside me:
“Gotta get back to work?” It was IF guy.
“Um, no...you have to? Aw I’m sorry.”
And that was the start of cycling becoming my PCP.
Let me back up. The first thing you might notice about IF guy are his massive thighs that taper into chiseled calves. Salt and pepper hair stubble covers a strong jawline and square chin. He looks big for a cyclist, but apparently that just means there is a giant fucking engine in there. He looks fit, but not unlike your run-of-the-mill recreational rider. Yeah, um, wrong. As Velocb would later describe him: deceptively fast. He slipped in front of me and just for shits and giggles, I thought I’ll draft off him for the 5 seconds it took for him to drop me. Besides, a short sprint would be good for me.
He didn’t drop me. He wouldn’t drop me. He kept just far enough ahead that I couldn’t get into his slipstream but close enough to tempt. And out of some stupid sense of politeness or competitiveness or cycling induced crazy, I chased that rear wheel with everything I had. FOR THIRTY FUCKING MINUTES.

I’m sure if I had been capable of thought, I would have wondered if I was going to have a heart attack. Instead, I gulped air and made my legs hurt more, holding out a desperate hope that he was going to get tired of the slow pace and peace out. He actually tried to talk to me during this whole ordeal and all I could do was sputter. I felt like [a much less accomplished] Seabiscuit.
We finally parted ways at the rotary. I ended up shaving off a total of 5 minutes of my total ride time, making my average speed something like 16.4mph. I sat in front of my desk the rest of the day, while my legs wept.
At least Velocb would later say that I looked “super strong” on Twitter. I actually saw Mr. Mystery Pain Cave Guy on the IF later that day, on my way home from a lecture. He waved.
Yeah...Unfortunately, I think we’re meant to be friends.

getting in the zone

So obviously warmer weather = more riding.
The thing is, like I’ve mentioned earlier, I’m not ready for all this sun. The riding’s whipping my legs into shape, but there’s the other half of the equation: what I’m eating.
That cyclists are constantly famished is old news. But caught in a power-to-weight ratio sport, we’re still clearly obsessed with food, nutrition, health, and how that all translates to speed [or not]. So even if you’re bored of hearing about it, if Bicycling can do a full feature on food, well, SO CAN I.

Okay so we all know that calories in < calories out = weight loss. The thing is, when you don’t really qualify as an endurance athlete but do more with your body than lie on the couch and eat chips all day, what the hell are you supposed to eat? A good ride might make you want to inhale your refrigerator once you get home, but the simple truth is that you can’t out-exercise a bad diet. On the other hand, if you’re constantly hungry, you’re not going to want to ride or ride well.
I’ve been watching what I eat [I’ve mostly succeeded in banning processed food from my kitchen], but a lot of the time, I’m famished an hour or two after meals. I would predictably lurk near my kitchen, nibbling on this and that; small wonder I haven’t lost a pound since I got my wisdom teeth pulled in, oh....2007.

Enter Mike’s mom, who is a legitimately awesome lady, as well as an unrivaled resource when it comes to health and nutrition. She suggested trying the Zone to get rid of the crazy cravings.
I was skeptical. Just like Atkins, it seemed like there were too many celebrities involved for it to actually work for real people. But Mike’s mom swears by it, so out of curiosity, I checked out their website. The basic premise is that depending on your gender, height, and weight, you’re allocated a certain number of “protein blocks.” For each block of protein, you’re supposed to eat a block each of fat and carbs. This is supposed to balance out your meals and keep you from getting hungry within 3-4 hours after a meal. Oh, and you’re not limited to one block of protein, carbs, and fat per meal; it depends on what you’re allocated [for me, it’s 11 blocks], but you’re supposed to divide the blocks up into 3 meals and 2 snacks [that would be 3 blocks per meal for me and 1 block each for my snacks]. A chart converting measurements of proteins, carbs, and fats into block is available here.

Okay so this is where it gets slightly complicated. 1 block of protein is about 1oz. But the serving size for 1 block of carbs or fat depends; 1 block of carbs can be either ½ a slice of bread or 4 cups of raw spinach. See where this is going? It essentially encourages you to eat more vegetables and fruits with your protein, as opposed to bread or super simple carbs that will send your blood sugar crashing. For example, in the above picture, for lunch I had a giant bed of lettuce, half a tomato [carbs], plus 2oz of sardines [2 blocks of protein], ¼ of an avocado [fat], and ½ a grapefruit [more carbs].
Still with me? No?
I didn’t think so. Which is why I’ve been playing guinea pig for you all since Sunday. Okay, not really, but I’m giving it a shot. It’s an interesting way to combine and eat food; and it’s a change that you can actually stick to for the rest of your life. I don’t have to eat massive quantities of meat all the time [3oz is about the size of your palm or a deck of cards] and lots of vegetables are involved. I am changing it up a bit, like eating 6 smaller meals a day as opposed to 5 [I like to eat, okay?], and I'm not following it to a T. But, I am documenting it all on flickr. No guarantees that there won’t be repetition [there already is abundant repetition], but if you’re interested, at the very least it’ll give you an idea on how to eat/GET IN THE ZOONNNEEEE.
And the best part? It’s keeping me full. As in not starving by 10am, even when I’m riding.
Now here’s to hoping I can shed some pounds while I’m at this...

more unexpected encounters

Even knowing that on Friday I had a mini-bonk, I was still disappointed in how hard the hills murdered my legs. I mentioned it to Mike, who gave me what has become the NYC Velo autoreply to most questions from yours truly:
“You need a road bike.”
Aw, cool, thanks! SUPER HELPFUL!
Apparently, I can churn out 18mph on the flats, though [which is a big deal for me]. That was a little more encouraging, so headed towards Dover on Sunday morning, I contemplated possibly throwing some sprints in there as well. You know, mix it up, keep it interesting.

It seemed like a good plan but I wanted to keep my options open; wuss out if need be, which all signs seemed to point to me doing. My decision was cemented when I realized that the inordinate number of roadies everywhere was due to the weekly Wells Ave Crit. No need for further embarrassment, I told myself, just get the miles in and go home quietly. But of course, this was the weekend of unexpected shit happening to me at every turn, and just when I was pretty sure that this was going to be an easy peasy ride, a blue/green/white kit with a lot of facial hair under the helmet blew past me.
Embrocation IF and full kit. Had to be James. I called out hi, which was an idea that bordered on the idiotic because then I felt obliged to crank it up a lot even if I’m sure James couldn’t care less if he had to go slow or slower to keep pace with me. I did manage to gasp out some conversation, though.
So much for not sprinting/going hard.
Tired and not really feeling it, I turned back after 45 minutes [lame, I know] and decided to just hammer it back home. 90 minutes hard = 2 hours easy, right...? I pushed it through the more flat areas, but still struggled in the climbs. And mid-huffing and puffing, I heard a voice over my left shoulder:
“A freewheel? Really?”

It was RMM [on yet another IF], who I haven’t seen in forever. Of course he caught me just as I was hitting that stretch of road where I was contemplating doing intervals or sprints or laps or whatever stupid idea was floating around in my head, and since he’s a Cat 3, I ended up doing exactly what I was trying to avoid. We ended up talking about the crit, and when he learned I’ve never been, he insisted I go check it out.
I was under the impression that this thing was sort of hilly. Wrong. It’s as flat as I am.

RMM took me around the course on the sidewalk as the B race was going on. It’s a short course consisting of a total of 15 laps, something like 12 miles for Ds and Cs. Navigating the course slowly, RMM pointed out which corners were what and where people usually crashed.
I watched the end of the B race, the start of the A race, got some blurry pictures, then headed home. It was a nice, unexpected twist to the usual ride and even if everyone who is anyone in the Boston cycling scene got to see me in my slightly retarded Lucky Charms jersey, I was feeling good. Even with my previous efforts, I was going at a decent clip, too.
Then I threw my chain.

Campy peanut butter wrench came out of the aforementioned jersey, chain got fixed, and I came home with black stuff all over my hands and arms. Ah, what a Sunday.
[Apparently, I missed a spectacular crash at the end of the A race. Hope everyone is okay!]

rolling through shit

When I said I was good at creating disasters, I was only half serious. I mean, I can make a pretty mean mess in the kitchen, have gotten myself into some spectacularly stupid situations, and have somehow managed to permanently scar my knees within 6 months of starting to ride. Despite all that, I haven’t endo-ed, broken my collarbone, or lost any fingers. This lulled me into being comfortable on my rides. I had a routine down, and it seemed to work.
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t prepared on those rides. I love being prepared. Not being prepared and armed with several alternative plans and to do lists exponentially increases the likelihood that I will turn into a crankopotamus. Diving straight into disastrous situations due to lack of preparation turns me into a giant bitch bomb. So I try to avoid that.
I said “try.”

Because when you’re doped up on sunshine and bike rides, sometimes, shit happens before you even realize it’s happening. And that’s exactly what happened on Friday.
With plenty of good weather outside, Mike and I planned a super easy 3 hour coffee ride. The planned route was the full 40 mile Dover loop; nothing new or special about it. Just a lazy, relaxing ride with a lot of Vitamin D thrown in. We fueled up on oatmeal and coffee beforehand, stuffed our pockets with all the essentials, and headed out in the late morning.
Even with a relaxed pace, we made good time, but an hour in, and my stomach started to growl and whine. The coffee and shared slice of banana bread were more than welcome by the time we rolled up to the Charles River Coffee House and quieted my rumbling tummy. Amped up on caffeine, we climbed back onto our bikes and headed west.

Half an hour later, I was suddenly fucking starving. Famished, I was looking at another hour and a half in the saddle with hills that kill me even on my good days. My legs felt more wrung out than painful. Welcome to bonks-ville.
The power turned down and the bitchery turned up. I was hurting and cranky and frustrated and that voice in my head started to ask all the discouraging rhetorical questions about what in the world I was actually doing. Meanwhile, I was barely able to keep my bike upright. Of course, I refused to stop, take a break, or touch the Larabar in my pocket. I felt like a failure. I just wanted to get home.
We pushed through the hills, mostly in silence as I was completely devoid of humor. Finally on flatter ground, I pushed away thoughts of a juicy [turkey] burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake and gave it all I got. Almost, almost home.
Then Mike got a double flat.

By this point, the ride had edged itself out of “terrible” and into “ridiculous.” Mike flipped his bike over and with only one spare tube on him, we ended up stuffing my 700x28 tube into his 23 tires. Somehow we managed not to release all the CO2 from the cartridges before attaching it to the valve [I’m a master of wasting those things], which is a good thing because we only had two between us. In the middle of peeling off his rear tire, I mentioned how the ride was devolving into a disaster.
“What are you talking about?,” Mike asked, “This is fun!”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. And he was right. Well, we both were. It was slightly disastrous but in the end, nothing I couldn’t handle. Which was a kind of cool thing to learn.
We did get home in one piece. And once through the door, we even came up with a really good meat snack. I heart me my meat snacks.
Shit happens [to everyone], I guess. You just have to learn how to roll through it.

success not an option

Mike is always telling me that I should start another blog [“you should start a running blog....called ‘Foot Strike,’” or when I mentioned my hamstrings, “you should just change the blog to “Hamstring Strike”]. Fed up with his constant suggestions, I told him I was going to change the name of this blog to “Face Plant” so I wouldn’t have to start another one and it would be generally applicable to my life.
So I was going to change my banner today [April Fool’s] to “Face Plant.” I was too busy face planting to get it done, though.
I’m picking myself up, dusting myself off, and heading out to do the usual 2 hour ride for the first time in a week. I can already feel my entire lower body hurting. But that’s okay, I think I’m getting used to that part.

Remember last week when I was booking it through some legit wind? My legs hurt, but I wasn’t afraid of it for once. I knew I could juice them out a little more and I’ll still be able to make it home, mostly injury free [there’s little in this world that Aleve can’t fix]. It might sound silly, but I thought that was kind of cool. Maybe proof that I was getting a little stronger. Maybe proof that there was some hidden potential in those legs. Maybe proof that I was getting this whole thing right for once.
But a week off the bike and a little bit of cabin fever makes for prime face planting situations. I’ve been trying to get back up but sometimes it can be kind of a struggle.
This time last year, I just liked bikes. And then it got complicated. Stupidly so. Who knew that what kind of bike you’re riding, what kind of jersey you’re wearing, or what kind of helmet you have on could be the basis of superficial judgment? I mean...seriously? We’re all in the equivalent of an 80’s take on a superhero outfit gone terribly wrong. I’m of the opinion that we all look pretty fricking ridiculous.
Still, being a single-speed among derailleurs, I fight that self-conscious mentality a lot. I know I stick out more than I maybe am comfortable with. I know my limitations are pretty glaring, too. And it’s clear that I’ve managed to put myself in an awesome situation where I can’t conveniently hide in a pack or relate to people who can ride for more than 6 hours. As far as the internet goes, I’m apparently the only female cyclist foolish enough to acquire two single-speeds and insist on riding them like road bikes. I’m going to be honest; that can be frustrating. It makes getting on the bike just that much harder.
But sometimes, I forget: success is not an option.

A mantra that originated on one of those rare days when I had the confidence to admit that I don’t really belong anywhere near a bike, it’s actually helped me stay on the damn thing. It even got me thinking I should try my hand at a crit, just to see how long it would take for me to get lapped [and oh yes, I would ride that 25lbs+ Bianchi]. People would probably take offense at that, but failure’s a lot more fun when you can spectacularly redefine “disaster” in the process. And quite honestly, I’m pretty good at that.
It’s all about attitude, people. Attitude in Lycra. Now off to blow up that Dover ride...!

being sold short

Dear sirs [and I mean sirs] in the cycling industry,
I am a 26 year old female law student who is in love with bicycles. I commute to school in all kinds of weather, sweat it out on the rollers in the winter, and ride outdoors every chance I get. I’ve grown accustomed to the sweaty rides, messy hair, and the image in the mirror when I manage to squeeze myself into Lycra. Arguments could be made that I’ve completely let myself go. However, like most women, I still want to look good while I’m pushing those pedals.
When I got wind of Rapha’s new women’s line, a [male] source told me that it was “only” going to be a pair of shorts, a jersey, and a jacket.
“Only?,” I responded, “at least they’re making some women’s stuff!”

I think he shrugged in response, or possibly nodded. I was excited, and couldn’t see why my source expected me to be disappointed at the limited nature of the new line. What I failed to realize then was that my own statement was an admission that, since I’ve started cycling, I’ve gotten far too used to selling myself short.
In an industry where most of the consumers are male, it’s not surprising that women are asked to take a backseat. I understand market demand and enough economic concepts to realize that asking every bicycle company to devote half of their resources into development of women’s specific gear/bicycles/accessories borders on the insane. But there’s a big middle that you guys are missing here, and I’m pretty sure the women are getting restless.
Take a look at Competitive Cyclist [a site I frequent because I know they only carry quality products]. There are 7 jackets/vests listed for women, under 5 brands. Compare that to the 35 jackets/vests listed for men, under 10 brands. At 39 for men vs. 29 for women, the split for short-sleeved jerseys is marginally better; but the latter also includes 9 sleeve-less jerseys. Sure, tank tops are great for hot summer rides, but you can’t legally race without sleeves.
Yes, there are brands like Terry and Luna Gear who only cater to women, and that’s great. But just because I’m a girl, doesn’t mean I want to always look like one when I’m drenched in sweat and struggling. Besides, how am I supposed to be taken somewhat seriously with flowers festooned on my back, chest, and shoulders? It’s bad enough when the only [road] bike that comes in my size also includes some terrible vector graphics of hibiscuses...why do I have to be forced to wear the same print all over my body?

Given this dearth of women’s cycling gear without the pink, the too-bright colors, or the rounded standing collars that make me look like a linebacker, I’m prone to jumping up and down happily when any company decides to produce some stuff for the fairer sex. But when you compare the options available to men, it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that the industry has consistently thrown us [women] a bone, with the mild expectation that we should be happy with whatever meager offerings we get.
And you know what? That’s insulting. It’s insulting that I’m expected to be happy with it, and it’s insulting that I’ve come to accept this as a given. I’m far from unique; there must be hundreds [if not thousands] of women out there who love to ride, who will eagerly open their wallets for gear that flatters but doesn’t simultaneously dumb down, that looks sharp but affords all the technical aspects the guys get in at least 10 different forms. And you are - for the most part - ignoring us.
That said, I’ll probably drop a pretty penny on some Castelli gear later this week, and resist the temptation to forcibly adopt running gear to work on the bike [but with Lululemon around, it’s hard to resist]. But, it did take me two weeks to find a jersey I think I might be happy with, and there’s no guarantee that other women aren’t just giving up. Or worse, settling for being content with something that should be expected of good cycling gear.
Female cyclists are a tough bunch. But being human [and female], we sell ourselves short in too many other areas of our lives; we shouldn’t have to do the same every time we get dressed for a bike ride.
Give us the credit we’re due. You may be surprised at what it might do for you, too.
Sincerely, Kaiko S.