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.
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