It is nearly time for warm weather to again shuffle over the landscape, and I can’t wait for it. Much as I love the silent solitude afforded by my hermit lair, I love cycling and generally being outside even more. This is despite the fact that I look like a complete idiot in my cycling clothes.
I’ve just had to let that go. Whenever I feel self conscious about my spandex-encased love handles, I just trip on over to peopleofwalmart.com and have a look at how bad it could be. At least I haven’t started dressing like Dr Rockso, or at least, not in public.
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Also, however bad I might look in tight lycra cycling kit, it’s much better then bearing the cyclist’s shame of not wearing a cycling kit. This would mark me as what’s known as a “Fred” which is cyclist-speak for “dork” and is to be avoided at all costs. There are a complicated series of rules for how a cyclist should appear, and I adhere to them as tightly as my pants adhere to my gentleman’s area.
Besides, I still have my general good looks for people to focus on, when my visage isn’t twisted into what I call my “War Face”.
Outward appearance aside, if I can just get through the marathon I have planned for Sunday, then I don’t have to do any more extended running for the rest of the year, although I probably will. I’m eying another full-distance Ironman race in late 2011, but I intend to spend most of this summer on my bike, making the War Face and filling in the pack.
I’ve already started getting ready for cycling season by spending time in the cyclist training cave. Like any locker room or indoor training area, it smells like sweat and pain.
It has probably two dozen spin bikes arranged in a fan emanating from one mirrored corner of the room, where a projection screen hangs. On screen are shown DVDs of pro cycling races such as the Giro our Tour de France, and motivating music pumps out of speakers all around us.
Last Friday I was spinning along and watching the glowing blue monitor attached to my bike. It has readouts for power and heart rate. I was trying to sneak in some rest during the middle of the workout, but coach Tony has a Batman-like ability to sneak up and read your numbers and then call you out for slacking.
I looked over my shoulder to see if he was watching, and he was. He walked over.
“Yes?” he said.
“Oh nothing, I’m cool”
“Are you sure? You looked needy for a second there.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said, “I would never look needy.”
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