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!