My Cycling Metamorphosis

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Lately I’ve been thinking about the magical metamorphosis that took place when cycling went from being a hobby for me to lose weight and stay in shape to something that–in many ways–defines me as a person today.

Some Background

As a kid, the extent of my bike riding was rolling around town on my black and yellow Mongoose BMX bike wishing I had the skills, speed and balls to race BMX with my friends Scott and John. The bike was cool, with sweet yellow mag wheels, checkered bar and stem pads and even though I never did race the bike, I rode around with a number plate on it. I was #4, paying tribute to then Pittsburgh Pirate shortstop turned coke-head Dale Berra. A tribute paid only after buying the #4 decal and being asked why the hell I was #4. If eleven year old kids called each other poseurs back in 1982, I would have surely been called one, and deservedly so.

After the BMX days, I sold my bike, stopped playing soccer, stopped playing baseball and turned all my attention to my new hobby; eating. Through my teens and very early twenties, I ate myself to a robust, ruddy cheeked, lonely and depressed 300 pounds. It wasn’t until I was on the brink of exceeding the maximum girth of my size 42 pants and lacked the funds to make the move up to 44s, that I finally did something about my weight (it seems it’s cheaper to lose weight than buy new clothes).

After years of saying I was going to “diet,” I finally just changed my lifestyle. I no longer attempted to starve myself, try diet pills or Slim-Fast shakes. For the first time in my life I started eating healthier foods, cut out between meal snacking (which were actually between meal meals) and started exercising, and IT WORKED!

Keep in mind, that at 300 pounds, my “exercising” consisted of long walks seeking out the biggest hills in town while listening to my Walkman, and that when you go from doing nothing to doing something, things will start to change; regardless, I was stoked to see the pounds start to come off. Then one day while sitting in my room listening to sad bastard music and flipping though a magazine I saw an ad for a mountain bike. It looked cool as hell and on top of that I remembered that this really hot girl I had gone to art school with had one. Cool looking bike… hot girl rides one…. OH, I’M GETTING ONE!

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Metaphors Aside

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I recently found this photo amongst the hundreds of unused, crappier than most, photos I take while riding my bike. It’s obviously not all that good, yet I find myself liking it. I like it–if for no other reason than–because in the past, every time I have ever crossed over this particularly heavily trafficked intersection (heavy for being out in the middle of Bumfuck, Michiganderburgh) where the North Higgins Snowmobile Trail crosses a Roscommon County seasonal road, I have been forced off my bike to walk. The sand is too soft and the numerous tire ruts from trucks, ATVs and dirt bikes too deep.

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A Talk With The Trail

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Last week I was putzing around in woods and realized that most of the photos I take of the trails I ride look like smooth ribbons of easy riding dirt. So, I got down and took a few shots of the trail to highlight why I so often opt for my full suspension bike.

As you can see I’m not talking about trying to smooth out Pennsylvania mountain rock gardens or technical descents, I’m simply talking about the ability to ride smoothly over trails that so often appear to be smooth and buff (and thankfully are in some places) but upon closer inspection beat my 43-year-old body up without the aid of some sort of suspension.

It was during this impromptu photo shoot that I starting rapping with the trail. Before I knew it, snapping a photo turned into a short interview that gave me a little insight into the life of the trail I ride so much, and you an insight into me losing my mind.

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Flying Fat

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You probably think that I have already reneged on my promise to no longer follow Cycling Writer Law 26/3.7 and that I am writing yet another post about riding a fat bike and using the word “fat” in the post title. Well, you’re wrong fool! This time I AM talking about me being fat and rolling fast enough to use the word “flying” (in my feeble mind) to describe it. So take that!

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Neffness VII

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I just got back into town from a whirlwind trip back to Western PA and need to get some ride mojo going, what better way than with some Neffness?

I am pretty sure that Jolanda Neff is the Peter Sagan of Women’s XCO mountain bike racing, just with better hair, much nicer legs and (most likely) no want to pinch any podium girl bums… not to mention I have no desire to see Peter Sagan in a skirt showing off the bike geek tan lines on his thighs (unless he finally wins a fucking sprint finish!).

Photo via Jolanda Neff’s Facebook page, most likely taken by Bernard van Dierendonck

A Different Burger

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Long time Soiled Chamois readers (all two of them) are probably familiar with my early summer Cat 5 Cooking project entitled The Soiled Burger Project; a meaty attempt at making a burger that was tastier to my aging, dulling taste buds. In my opinion, the results were great and I eventually settled on a burger that I really enjoy eating and turns out perfect for me on a consistent basis. However, I started to enjoy a few too many of them. Many pounds of ground beef were happily eaten. Then, just as I started looking into buying my own cow, and just shy of developing SCOMS (or as it is unrecognized by and not at all referred to by the American Medical Association: Severe Chronic Ongoing Meat Sweats) I decided that I had found my burger and it was time to move on… time to move on to something a bit more, how should I say this… vegetarian?

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Subparness, Sniff It

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With B-Man and Wifey on a short jaunt to WPA for the July 4th holiday and me at home on Jake (the dog) duty, I was hopeful that the later part of this week would be filled with miles and smiles. Sadly it has been filled with suck, subparness, wind, rain, few miles and fewer smiles. Oh well, it beats not riding at all! Or does it?

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