That rear brake cable.
As expected, there has been little no time in the saddle since Saturday’s foray out onto the snirt roads. Most of that is due to doing a crap ton of other shiz that seemed more important than freezing my tits off out on some desolate frozen dirt road.
Since last Saturday’s “race,” riding has been somewhat limited by road and trail conditions, time, and desire. Other than that 4.5 mile snowshoe up north, my laziness kicked into high gear and my half-hearted attempts at strength training turned into quarter hearted attempts, and any time on the trainer was short-lived with a focus on “fuck it.”
It looked as if I could get in a dirt road ride in Saturday morning. With an eye on rising temps, I hoped that I could roll the studded Fatterson on frozen dirt and ice and avoid the slushy, muddy quagmire that the Michigan dirt roads would become as they thawed throughout the day. As you can see, I didn’t make it. I could have made it if I could have pushed my ass out the door earlier in the morning, but I got wrapped up in laziness, coffee, and FA Cup footy.
While the northern lower peninsula of Michigan has been enjoying some steady snow, further south we have been stuck in a continuous mix of melting snow in the day, freezing snow in the night, along with ice, slush, rain and other wintertime fecal matter. The days since Saturday’s race have been a wasteland of [fun] physical activity and I find myself grasping at any legal means to keep myself motivated through the soggy, gray, wet crap-tastic days.
Let me start by saying that this is NOT a “race report.” Ever fattening forty-four year old guys who haven’t raced in nearly two years shouldn’t write race reports. However, this is my blog, and pretty much my ride journal, so to an extent it is a race report. Just don’t expect much “racing.”
As I mentioned in my last post, I decided to go against the advice of doctors, priests, lawyers, heads of state, relatives, my dog, and public opinion by signing up for my first bike race in over twenty months: The Fat Chance at Crystal Mountain. I thought it made perfect sense to come out of race retirement in the middle of winter and do a fat bike race.
I’ve done a shit ton of XC and endurance mountain bike races, a bunch of gravel races, a few cross races (which I’ve sort of blocked out), and one road race (which, like being touched “down there” by a shirtless ice cream truck man, I pretend never happened). However this would be only my second fat bike race. How bad could it be?
Bad. Not all bad, but at the end it was clear that there is still no cure for stupid.
From my records (records = this crap blog) it seems that it’s been well over a year and a half since I lined up for a race. I’ve gone to races, photographed races, talked about races, wrote about races and peed in the woods at races, but somehow I’ve managed to avoid racing for 1 year, 8 months, 25 days and counting. During that time I’ve gained weight, rode less, then rode more, still gained weight, rode anyway ’cause that’s just what I do and all but forgot what it’s like to put out any sort of race day effort. So, it makes perfect sense that I signed up for the Fat Chance at Crystal Mountain this coming Saturday.
I’m a moron.
The other day while riding along talking with friends on the New Year’s Day group ride, many folks (myself included) were talking about how the dawn of the fat bike has made riding our trainers all but a thing of the past. So far this fall/early winter I have spent a whopping four minutes on the trainer. I tried, but I just couldn’t do it. When forced indoors for physical activities I’ve been more than content with running intervals and jogging on the treadmill and strength training. You just can’t beat the mental rub and a tug of riding your bike outside, no matter what the weather, and I wasn’t going to sully that feeling with time spent pedaling and going nowhere for no reason.
Then yesterday happened.
The first day and ride of 2016 was so good I wanted to see if I could top it on the second.
I didn’t.
Things were swell on the second, but it wasn’t like the first. It never is.
It’s been a week since the girth of my flabby ass cheeks rubbed up against a bike saddle. During that time I ate and drank a LOT. Ham, beef, potatoes, pizza, whole blocks of cheese, sweets, cookies, beer, and gin fueled cocktails all found their way into the muffin-like stomach that spills over my too tight jeans. I also spent nearly fourteen hours in the car driving to and from Pennsylvania for the Christmas holiday. I slept like shit, ate like shit, and I’ve felt like a fleshy turd mentally and physically over the past week.
Now back into the frigid bosom of Michigan, I was given the choice to either run on the treadmill in the Stankment® or head out into the crisp air and wind for a Better Than The Trainer Ride™ in an attempt to make a dent in all that flab. With Monday calling for freezing rain and sleet, I chose to ride and save the indoor miserableness for Monday.
It’s been a while since I spewed forth notes from my musical manifesto, but I figured the holiday down time is a good time to waste time with nonsense about my band of the week/what I’m listening to at the moment.
These days–nine times out of ten–I am late to the party compared to modern-day hipsters. However as a forty-four year old living in a small town in the middle of rural Michigan who often leaves the house only to ride his bike, I’m just happy to get to the party at all, even if the trip to said party means wading through a sea of snarky “no one listens to them anymore” comments from people young enough to be my kid and wearing a slouchy ski cap in 75˚ temperatures.
As the Christmas holiday approaches, riding has slowed down a bit. A drop in temperatures and high winds had me opting out of rides on Friday and Saturday. However Sunday I did get in the woods for a lap at MMCC on the Procaliber.
