While they don't hold a candle to those of my average Big Mac chomping, Big Gulp slurping, McGangBang (look it up) inventing countrymen, my eating habits haven't really been the greatest. The fact that my wife and I were on the 'Zone Diet (calzone, that is) for about four months prior to my embarking on the idiocy that is cycle racing is probably the single most identifiable instigator in embarking on said idiocy. I could still look down and see my toes and other important parts quite clearly, but there were warning signs that an obstructed view was in the offing. And I don't turn into one of those cherubic, proportional looking people when I get fat. No, I get the real dead sexy redneck in a wife beater skinny fat man look. And double chins. It's glamour in a ziploc bag, let me tell you.
A couple of years on, and the Shanghai phone book that is my lower face has been under new and much more diligent management, but my eating issues have moved to a higher order. The problem of volume has been stanched by my repeatedly dressing up in sausage casings and playing bike racer, but my acuity at playing bike racer has likely been hampered by my friendship with Mayor McCheese and his administration. In yet another likely vainglorious effort to foil time's diabolical schemes to undo any athletic prowess I might once have possessed, I have turned to nutrition. Spinach is such a large part of my intake that I am truly, truly, living the green lifestyle. Not the green lifestyle that I lived in college, but more in a green in-green out type of way. You really know you are eating enough roughage when...
The weather this weekend was great. I joined 90% of DC residents on the 10am ride on Saturday and had another episode of "Successful Pack Fodder." The ride was a lot easier this week than last. The rollers were once again fast, but Esworthy packed no hatred. It was kind of smooth sailing. There was one time after the bridge on the way back in where I almost got my feet taken out from under me, which was fortunately short lived. Have you ever been at a bar, having a lovely time, and then had a sudden wave of "oh my god I need to puke this instant!" flash over you, only to disappear as quickly as it came? I had the cycling equivalent of that.
Sunday was Tradezone. Apart from my lack of melanin, I didn't show too much. Apparently when junior middle aged people all of a sudden have free time because their jobs momentarily stop sucking ass and dominating their lives and they go all hog wild and throw in a bunch of hours riding bikes real fast, it has a cumulative and lingering fatiguing effect. My legs were pretty dead and I didn't have my usual brio and sangfroid for racing. To tell you the truth I kind of mailed it in. Which is how we come to my plans for this week. It's not that I have no plans this week, it's that I have plans for nothing this week. I will endeavour to perform some situps. Wednesday I will meet with some team mates to bestow upon them the magical secrets of achieving a Cat 3 upgrade while mine remains elusive. Friday I will head to the wilds of Lost River and unleash the fury all over the place.