Frustrations in Mathematics

Well, all these damn Superweek races can bite me.


Honestly, every damn one can be summed up as follows:



* Waste gas and lose my way driving to some dumb ass honkey tonk in fire-work selling, cheese-guzzling Worst Consin. (Evanston omitted this step. Bless you Evanston and the delicious preservative-free, live-culture, all natural Red Mango Yogurt shop on the course)

* Drop trou, liberally apply Assos on the raw boys, catch dudes checking out the Italian Stallion's package whilst shimmying into slowly disintegrating team kit.

* Bike malfunction in the fuckin' parking lot. It's all happened, take your pick.

* Use my master mechanic skills to MacGyver things under control.

* Heinous ordeal in the port-a-potty. I usually take pride in my accomplishments, but these are a rare breed of stress-induced on-the-road terrible freaky nasty.

* Try not to make eye contact with the next person in line at the port-a-potty. Poor bastard.

* Try to warm up on local streets with ass face drivers unaware that I am about to rock their streets and they should get their Cheesehead rusted-out pick-up out of my determined way.

* Stew at the start line as the bastard races are running late and the race before mine has been stopped due to some sort of Cat 5-tastropie.

* Take my no-cost lap on some pot-holed, tight-cornered, shit stick course.

* Spin around to the line to find 40 multi-colored lycra-clad love-handled bodies between me and the damn line.

* Intimidate purse-swingers, crush feeble souls and fill my shoes with sweat while sally-faced losers yell, "Hold your line!"

* In the final 1-2 laps, some dousche crashes in front of me. Or into me. Or under me. Or clips my wheel. Or grabs my jersey as he hits the pavement.

* Roll in for some lame-ass mid to late pack finish.

* Have words in the parking lot with some ass face while completing my post-race nutrition requirements.



All of this chaps my already weeping and chafed taint, as my training and fitness has been focusing on Superweek since Coach M. and I laid out our game plan while other riders were packing on their winter weight. I'm better than this. I could totally win all of these races if it weren't for all the other dousches in them. I mean, numbers don't lie.



Now, I totally understand this shit, but I'm not the best at explaining it to you boneheads. But just know that I should be winning these things, no questions asked. Hell, Coachie says mathematically I am a Cat 2 or 3. Shit, I could have told him that.


I mean, plot this shit out. My power above threshold and zero times during a Crit are ideal. My mid-week Crit-specific interval workouts have me blasting 1000+ watts easy as pissing off a bridge. So watts up with the sub-par finishes?

I blame it on the dousche-bags that shouldn't be out there in the first place.

Tour de My Pants and Do Me Week

Well, well well. What do we have here.

The tour has started, cycling season is peaking in Chi-town and I am a little bit of a local stud. While I am stoked to see the component upgrades and my hard work this year finally pay off, I gotta say that I am more freakin' stoked about the ladies clamoring to get a glance of me in my fine ass war lycra.




For example, this fine young thing wanted a huge, heaping piece of me. I mean, look how she has chosen to position herself. She knew what she was doing. Contact me, sweetheart. I'll show you a nacho.


Total bullshit that the first Stupidweek race was only for the Cat 1/2s. Especially since I saw some of that shit and I think I could have hung in for a while. Now, I am not saying I could have won it. I'm not an idiot, fools. But I know I could have hung in with the pack and rubbed chamois with some hellish neon green ass-stained chamois and shown off my pearly white shiny shoes.

Fortunately, I'll get enough chances over the next week or two here and get that upgrade that is due to me. I mean honeslty, Fowlkes, how can you hold me back?

Why you should just man up and ride your bike

Scoreboard Reads:

Pavement 1, Pedal Stroke 0




Chicago has finally hit its utmost prime... weather is consistently decent and it's not ball-sweat, swamp-ass August yet. Beer gardens are offering up cold brews and tantalizing eye candy. One can hardly feed a parking meter without falling over some tramp in a tank top. Every turn of every corner seems to bring the sounds of a live band playing, "Brown Eyed Girl." Being a cyclist in Chicago in the summer is the friggin' shiz-nit, right?

Except when you find yourself rubber side up. It was all a cluster of donkey shit, but in order to keep things civil on the group ride, let's just say 2 wheels kissed and then the pavement frenched me. I would like to have some long winded story about a road defect, a drunk driver, hail and lightening, a midget basketball team and component failure. I would also be stoked to report that this was one of those we-could-have-all-died-in-a-firey-hell-but-someone-did-exactly-the-right-thing-at-exactly-the-right-time-and-saved-the-day life-affirming tales of strength and determination. But unfortunately, I just have to say that a certain rider who isn't usually a dumb ass was a huge dumb ass and I blame him and he blames me because he suspects that he is indeed the dumb ass. But whatever.

The road rash is killer and I am just glad to have been discharged home with some kick ass pain pills. Although uncomfortable, there is no prob with spinning the wheels so expect to see me out there again, rocking my training plan (as directed by Coach M). Hell, the Vicodin may be a valuable asset during intervals.

I'm a little weary though, so I may be riding on my own. Give me some room, will ya?

COUGARS!

At once thought to be too wrinkly-old and fuckin' orange-tan long-nailed creepy for my taste, I must say that I have recently been happily converted to a Cougar fan. But that's a story for another place and time, homies.

(You're the bomb-dizzle, Sharon.)









I am wicked stoked for the events this weekend. I'm gonna tear off some freakin' Nair-ed legs and eat them with some chamois butter on Cervelo toast.

You heard me, bitches.

Could there be a better city to ride in?

What could a righteous dude complain about when this is the view on the ride?

I mean, other than the weirdos on the lakefront path, and the incessant need for runners to clutter up the whole joint like they own the place, and the freak temperature lability, and the butter face barista rejecting me again, and that fucking dude that always tries to drag race me on the path although he knows I'm the M F-ing shit, and the increasing number of stroller-type contraptions under foot & wheel, and the punks that are always draining the vein in my courtyard before and after every Cubs' game, and the highest price of gasoline in the nation, and Oprah's eternal BS.


But other than that, what's there to complain about?

Correct Bicycle Disposal

Giro

Between selling like Del Griffin, riding like Lance and watching the Giro... I hardly have time to chat up the GNC boys or hang out at the LBS in chamois, hoping for an impromptu group ride to erupt out onto the pavement.


Although all the ancestors I have known have basically been American, there is a swelling of my heart and a feeling of homecoming when I see the Italian landscape littered with bicicletas. Especially when I spy fine Italian birds. I need to immigrationally relocate to a foxier, more Italian country. I think Italy may fit the bill.

I've found true love!

Forget the many lovely ladies in my long (you know what I mean...) career.
I have found a new and true blue love!

Junx was gettin' raw and rugged, which doesn't help with the aforementioned lovely ladies (I'm looking at you, Sharon!)

I'll steal your honey like I stole your bike...

Although I love buying full body rain gear, I really dislike riding in the rain. I completely dis-enjoy having a nice arid ride and then all of a sudden finding myself all John Cusack, sopping wet in a parking lot somewhere. This occurred today of course. But there was a kick ass pot o' gold at the end of the rainy ass rainbow!

So I was standing at the sketch bus stop, ringing out my arm warmers and licking the fog out of my glasses, trying to figure out the best damn way home. Through this gnarly shrubbery, I spied a tiny wheel. Like a fuckin' midget leg crime scene. And I investigate and lo and behold there was a mini bike! Like all intact and shit, all smooshed into foilage, begging to be my bitch. So after some maneuvering, it tramped its bitsy ass back home with me and here we are.

I gots a freaking mini bike!

Brainstorming has begun. It has to be used in the right sitch. I would totally commute it to work one day so I could bring the thing right up to my cubicle, but they've been sending me out to our suburban office frequently and that mini bike ain't goin' that far. Perhaps I will warm up on it at the next race. Try to convince the Freds that I'm going to race the thing.

Or shit! Just actually race the thing.

No, couldn't do that to the Cervelo! Especially after the de-greasing I just gave it.

Craptastic!

You know what I just realized was amazing?

Blackberry with headset while biking!

Brilliant! Why didn't I think of this before??

Straight shooter with "Upper Management" written all over him

All right, all right.

So I had this work thing out of town that kept me from bloggin' the shit up. And I had the sweet ass company issue lap top... so I could have used it for more G rated events, but I there really wasn't anything to regale the abiding fans with. To sum up the whole damn conference: Midwest Sales Team kicked the crab-scratchin', Sam-Adams-drinkin', swan-boat-pedalin', bofug-lovin', Bill-Buckner-hatin' New England Sales Team's asses off. Just like the red-headed step-daughters that they are, I am sure they are being beaten with a strong switch by the hairy arm of Corporate right now. Some awesome doodling from yours truly from the lame ass lecture portions of the ordeal highlighted above.

Sure, I got some miles in, but they were completely useless. Coach M. went into a full-blown meltdown over the training log I brought back. He paced back and forth and swung his arms about and everything. So upon my return, it was all-cycling, all the damn time. I was instructed to repent for my ghastly sins and get the legs spinning out some serious miles at serious watts. The Dude obliges. Which leaves little time for this sort of self-indulgent nonsense.

The fitness is back to pre-conference legit-ness. I've got a night off and a leg-shredding ride tomorrow with the boys over hill and bloody vale. Tomorrow por la noche, I will tear some mother-fargin' shit up- in full kit- at Looptopia.

See your asses there!

Cha Cha Cha

If you can avoid acquiring a bout of diarrhea in the middle of a long ride, I would advise it.

I went through 2 toe warmers, ruined my saddle bag...


... and I will never wear that hat again!

Back off!

I know, bitchnatches, it's been a while.

I've gotten a lot of complaints, but dang, yo!

I had this conference and Coach M. and I are into some mad training and I am improving on some honorable skills.

So be patient and I'll give the full skinny soon!

Lemme kick a little sumpin' to the Gs

Got some bumper stickers late night web surfing! How fucking awesome are these?

Even with the prominent bike rack, I am not quite sure that the Scion properly emotes my cycling prowess. Nothing says, "I'm kicking your ass at this race" like an auto decked out in sport-specific bumper stickers.

Copy my ass and you'll pay the price. Bitches.

Rad iTunes Playlist

I enjoy spinning down Sheridan Road rocking to music on my 8GB video iPod as much as the next lycra-clad dude. But I just hooked up a playlist that will literally strangle and subsequently dismember any other playlist out there. It kicks it up that hard. I just feel totally alive and fucking bad ass when it's blasting in my ear buds.


So I thought I'd share! If you plan on replicating its hot-ness, I highly recommend paying strict attention to the song order. These songs were not just thrown in there from across the room, and these tunes are not shuffled. For shame! There is an important ebb and flow to the music as it tells its story.

Check it:



Here I Go Again, Whitesnake
Fucking Hostile, Pantera
Comin' Atcha, Tesla
Cannibal, Ministry
Bad Attitude, Cinderella
Helmet in the Bush, Korn
All 4 U, Warrant
Cake and Sodomy, Marilyn Manson
T.N.T, ACDC
Chains of Misery, Iron Maiden
Killer is Me, Alice in Chains
More Than Words, Extreme
I Wanna Fuck Myself, Faith No More
Hook in Mouth, Megadeath
Speedfreak, Motorhead
Every Rose Has A Thorn, Poison




Well I'm a mean machine, I'm the kind you don't wanna meet
My middle name is trouble, I'm a danger in the street
My motor's in overdrive, my pedal's to the floor
I never get enough, I'm always comin' back for more


For real, right? That is honestly how I roll...

O'Grady knows what's up!

I think that little rodent copied off of me, but Stuart is down with the squovalness. Maximize efficiency while keeping the weight light as a feather!

That technology is exactly why I've been practicing some hands-free victory salutes. I'm gonna be needing the sweet moves soon.

Reminds me of me

A lot of people say that I remind them of a certain recent P-R winner. In appearance, style and race technique, mostly.

Can't say that I disagree.

Question for SRAM

What ever happened to half-pipe shifters, yo?

Supplementation

With the epidemic of toxic processed foods, it is a no-brainer that I adhere to a strict organic diet. The American diet is going down the shitter. Processed meat causes pancreatic cancer, butter flavoring causes lung cancer, and acrylamides cause all the evil in the world. Shit, some Mexican study just showed that if you eat 8 lbs of refined white flour a day, your risk of breast cancer increases. What is this world coming to?

Personally, I know what my body needs. It calls for vitamin supplementation.

For those of you trying to figure out what the long-kept secret is to this stunning physique, here's a list of what I currently take:


* Optimum Nutrition NitroCore 24 (Ultimate Chocolate)
* Optimum Nutrition Casein Protein
* Pro Performance Amplified Creatine
* Muscle Asylum Fat-Incinerating Serum
* Pro Performance Cut and Burn Physique Program
* Health Plus Super Colon Cleanse
* Natural Biotic Super Probiotic with Bifidobacterium
* Ginkgo Biloba
* Grape Seed Extract
* Milk Thistle
* Maximum Greens Complete
* Acai Natural Energy Boost
* Organic Super Noni
* Fish Oil chewable tablets
* Red Yeast Rice
* Shark Cartilage
* Glucosamine & Chondroitin

I must say I left one influential vitamin out, so that my routine could not be completely mimicked. Also purposefully omitted was the tedious race-morning supplementals, which are aimed more toward ass-kicking and less toward all-out longevity.


Take that bitches!

Super Dooper Piece of Crap

Yes, it is important and no, it wasn't clean and yes, I called.

And I'm not going to get into it right now. I'm pissed and exhausted and after kicking the shit out of a particular unnamed piece of furniture in the pad, I decided it's just not worth it. I didn't race... again.

I got a flat.

No dumb shit, not on the bike. On the fucking car. And it just screwed up everything and the closest I got was the fucking Hardees / Love's and Jack's Tire Repair.

But fuck it.

Worst Consin

Such fucking bullshit.

So I load up the Scion, crank up the Pantara and set the ETA to 9am. Enough time to hit registration, check out the competition, oil up my legs and still put a hurtin' on both Masters Races. But shit just ain't right from the get-go. My sugar-free no-whip honey latte spilled all over my lap, I missed the exit first time 'round, and the joint looked dead. No clip-clop of shoes, no parking lot full of bike racks, no sea of colorful lycra, no neon cones or overweight officials.

After a lot of dicking around, I learn from Randall at Randall's Frozen Custard that the whole shootin' match got cancelled. Fo shiz, asses? I tell Randall to get his head out of the freezer and proceed to make some huffy phone calls and finally get in contact with some asshole from Team Polska, who says, yea, dick nut, the race is off due to excessive snow and ice on the course.

Well, I was on the M F-ing course and I see 50 degrees and a whole lot of sun. Dude says, well, I really apologize, but we did all we could to... I hung up at that point because the dude was obviously a loser. I head back to Randall's Frozen Custard and ask where I can find a good group ride. Or a unsanctioned race? Randall tells me about the beauty of the Sheboygan marina and the National Parks I should see as long as I was there.

But who gives a fuck about Kohler National Park? I was there to drink Powerade and kick ass. And I was running low on Powerade.

Anyway, it was all bloody, dirty, asshole bullshit. I was totally looking forward to my first WCA points of the year and my free spaghetti meal.

Fon du Lac and Osh Kosh Cycleries, Team Polska, Xcel Training and Cannondale can all suck the big one.

Speed Racer

So I was recounting this afternoon's events to the dudes at the GNC and everyone was like, " Your stories are always amazing! You should have a blog!" And I was like, YO, I know and ... hells bells I already do!! Due to popular demand, this yarn has gots to be spun online, beyotch!

After updating my myspace and taking a client to Rainforest Cafe, I took a half day from work for some interval training to tune up my aerobic system before this weekend's races. So I found a sweet little motley street with a bit of a hill and was kicking angry-ass interval-style. I just knew I was rocking pretty fast. But when the 5-0 pulled up with lights a-blazing, I was looking around to see who he was pulling over. After a little uncomfortable interaction where I said a few things I shouldn't have, I realized he was after ME. Shit, I was going so fast I got a SPEEDING TICKET ! No joke!

I didn't mean it when I called him a cock sucker, but the testosterone was a-flowin' and I wasn't really prepared to clip out, bring my heart rate down and have a chat with the po-po. Apparently there was a 25mph speed limit and I was, of course, exceeding it. So I switched gears emotionally, gingerly approached Officer Dangle, and he started grabbing lycra ! Apparently I had the right to remain silent and the right to an attorney and I was completely stunned! But being a good salesman, I realized that all was not lost. This little piggie was in the palm of my bike-gloved hand. I apologized and started to lay it on thick. Turns out Dangle is in training for his first triathalon this summer! So we talked training and basic physiology and the whole sha-bang ended with us shaking hands, exchanging cell phone numbers and coordinating a ride for next weekend.

Of course, I was advised to slow it down. As if that's even possible, peeps!

Second place is first loser

After a few busy days of kicking ass at work ( 4 new accounts! ), on the road ( pedals to the metal beoyotch! ), and executing elaborate April Fool's pranks ( a "For Sale by Owner" sign in my buddy's front yard! ), I return.

It's absolute and total bullshit that I couldn't sign up for that race, and there were 14 totally perfect good spots wasted on DNF assholes. I could have shown all those butt rags how a real cyclist sprints to the finish. Cobblestones? Hills? Oh please. Save me from all the whining. I would have left that pack in my musky dust.

Honestly, who would enter that race and just decide after a little breezy lap around a flat po-dunk town to just stop and head to the Hardy's instead? Lame-os, that's who.

I am genetically engineered to finish these Crits. It's totally apparent in the few I've done. I mean, I love 'em! Oh, you'll see soon enough. Dark streak of lightning in a hot kit passing your ass at the finish?

Yea, that's me.

So who's getting second?

Car Pie

Ghandi once said, "Carpe Diem!" If you don't understand all of that Indian shit, it means, "Seize the mother fuckin' day." So I feasted on organic steel-cut oatmeal and fresh local kumquats, grabbed the sparkling Cervie and did exactly that. 

As I was grabbing the big bull by gnarly horns, everyone else must have been tucked snugly in their bassinets, sucking their little girlie thumbs.  There wasn't a lot of lycra on the roads today. Shit, it wasn't the best day for a ride, but it felt great knowing that those dill weeds were sleeping it off while I was out in the bitter misty cold breaking the pavement apart.  Those miles will undoubtedly pay off big-time at the first crit, boy-eee! 

My fitness is totally perking up! My watts maxed out at 1352! 

Daaang gurl! It was so damn hot.  

Weekend Buys

Thought I would update the loft with a little bike style. It's important to me that people know right away: I am a semi-professional cyclist. 

And I mean some serious fucking business. 

So in 5 to 7 business days, I will have a shitload of goodies in my hot little hands. Like this sweet wheel magazine rack to hold all of my Velo News, Muscle & Fitness and Mens Health mags. (No, not those, foo'! The good stuff is kept behind the toilet in the bathroom, yo! )

And this pizza cutter. Although I think an all-over brushed steel color would look better in my sleek-ass modern kitchen, I guess blue is the only color it comes in as of now. Bastards! It would be so fly to whip this sucker out next time the boys rally 'round for a post-race celebratory Za. 

OK, this beauty was a bit on the pricey side. But style has an inevitable cost and I gots the cash for the mandatory shit. Like this bike chain bowl. Shit, I can load my Gu and shot blocks in this bitch. Maybe even some pretzel rods or string cheese if it's a more classy affair ? $88? Totally fuckin' worth it.  

If I ever get that smokin' dark-eyed Caribou barista to dump that moth-eaten, guitar-strummin' ass clown, drop the lame ass coy act and accept my repeated offer to a home-cooked Italian meal, this will be ready in my pantry. Because I am a passionate, passionate pedaler. 

WTF ?

So a buddy from the team is talking about this wicked out-of-town bike race this weekend, and I was all like, yea, I'm gonna do it and he's like I didn't see your name on the sign up and I'm like, well, I just decided to do it when you were talking about it right now. Because if legs are being shredded, I want to be the f-ing cheese grater. Or whatever.  

And I know I can beat this dude. I mean, he's skinny as all hell, and mangy-lookin', and doesn't even have a Cervelo. Well, he says how are you going to do it if you aren't signed up and I'm like, I'll sign up the morning of. Then he says, tough kittens, the race has been closed for like a month or something. Shit ... I would have won my Cat, I just know it. 

Anyway, the weather looks like it will be better for showing off on the bike around here this weekend anyway. I look forward to slipping on my new jersey and pedaling my ass all over town. I mean, I usually dress pretty damn snappy, and I am elated to be able to bring my exquisite stylin' to the bike too. Oh, the chicks will dig it. Check it:

  

Weight a Minute!

So, Coach M. is the shiz-nit, ya know. He is soooo in tune to my fitness and we're prepared for the inevitable successes this season. I totally believe in him and he in me. I think he would coach me for free, but I would never ask.  

So when Coach says its time to get to racing weight, it's time to get to freakin' racing weight. He recommends I eat 12 calories per pound of weight per day. Shit, won't he be swelled with fatherly  pride to know that I've been eating ELEVEN calories per pound per day. Boo ya! Oh, I could go into the breakdown of carbs and proteins, but it's pretty complicated. Just know this body is a temple... of doom!

And when Coach says its time to log some hours on the trainer, Home Boy gets his bulging chamois on the trainer. I rode like 5 hours last night alone. Well, I didn't really time it or anything, but it was right about there. 

But here's where the problem lies. Coachie gets on his high horse when I start talking about my weight lifting regimen. I'm all like, yo, I was jammin' my pecs and shockin' my abs and this torso is going to look bronze and hot shirtless at North Ave this summer. And he's all like blah blah, don't pack on extra weight on your upper body, blah blah blah. And I was like, dude, if I wanted to hear from an ass, I'd fart! Besides, if you ride as fast as me, you need a strong upper body. And who wants to look like Rasmussen anyway? Not this Giuseppe. 

Git R Done!

Saw this on my ride and almost fell off the saddle. I mean, this is the funniest thing I have seen since I saw Larry the Cable Guy in Waukegan last week. Maybe I can catch him in Moline in April!

If I ever get calves like these, just take the authentic Samari sword off my wall and slice me in half. My life will be completely complete. 

The stead is in!

Well, it took that dousche bag at the shop long enough to assemble, but the Cervelo is firmly in my hands and entirely in my heart. I nearly wet myself as I wiped it down with a soft cloth and posed its fine frame in front of my breakfast bar. I mean, look at it. 

R3, baby! This ain't no R2.5. Shit, check the squoval shape of those damn tubes, and all that beautiful Carbon.  This bitch is totally race proven! Hello? Cancellara, Paris-Roubaix, 2006? You're smelling my chamois, now! The fuckin' snow has prevented a road ride yet, but I got the new baby on the trainer and I could literally feel every watt being transferred into forward motion. 

Like the first night I met my skanky ex-wife, I can't keep my hands off this thing. 

I mean, how tits will the R3 look coming off the Scion XB at that first Crit? Rollin' up to the line with this mean machine, and everyone will instantly know that they are competing for 2nd place. 'Cuz this Italian Stallion gots 1st, bitches! 

Raise the flags and sound the horns...

I finally made the blogosphere, yo. 

Well, everyone's been asking, and I thought... what the hell, right? I'm sure this would be a good place for the cast of thousands to check out my detailed race reports, multiple equipment upgrades, tight training itinerary and sweet ass pictures. Just giving the lovely ladies what they've asking for. You know who you are. 

Despite my recent bout of the flu and some sort of schnarsty skin infection, I have been crankin' pedals on the trainer and logging some serious miles. I rode like three (3) times last week and I practically wore a hole through my chamois! Although I have some amazing numbers, my fitness must be sub-par compared to the beast I was at the end of last summer. My coach has passed down some stellar training tips and we know it'll pay off by Superweek.  

I am sure you all heard, but it's official. I received confirmation that I moved up and am with the big guns in Cat 4 now. You Nancys best watch your wheel... I'll be right on it! Top secret information...the 2008 bike is  getting hooked up as I type and I can't wait to unveil it at that first Crit. And check it... this year's kit is so damn fierce! I can't really unveil all the team's secrets yet, but let me just say: camouflage.  I know! Insane, right?

Well, back to Tour de France videos and that sweat soaked trainer. I think I'll practice my victory salutes tonight. I'm thinking a simple point to the outfield like Redford in "The Natural" or some kind of adaptation of the Soulja Boy dance. That would be flat-out pimp!