Approach/Avoidance Racing Syndrome

 "This looks like a safe camping spot", he said, dropping his pack and crushing a wolf.

From the book, "Bored of The Rings"

Originally written spring of 2017...

Training. One of life's little lies and curse words combined. Yes, I need and enjoy training. Yes, I detest and abhor training. Two sides of a three sided coin (the other side is ice cream...chunky peanut butter ice cream, perhaps with coffee flavor...).

Three weeks left of the grind, before three weeks of THE Grind! At this stage in my training schedule, my goals are twofold; 1. Keep up mileage > 200 miles a week, and 2. Avoid measuring my progress by miles per week. Sound conflicting? You should see it from my view. Last week 283 miles with tons of climbing (yep, climbing is measured by weight). 

This week I swapped a rim and put on a new tire. Hey, might as well change things up right before a race, eh? 'The' tire, as in the one I'll run the TD with: Maxxis Ikon 2.35" thingy. Damn, is that a large beasty out front! I cleverly saved $6.99 by reusing my tubeless rim strip. Four CO2 cartridges later, after limping home on a leaky tire today, I bought a new rim strip. And yes, I also pumped up the tire as well - just got lazy and had to use up those 30 cartridges for $40 I got a few years ago.

Oh yah, I ditched the dyno hub, as my second rectifier circuit (the electrickery thingy that helps fry your lights) went up in smoke. See above, "change things right before a race". Cannot afford an unplanned release of energy 'event' whilst on the Tour. So back to batteries. There, 'one less thing' as Momma used to curse. Bring on those lithium's.

Anyway, back to training. I'm ready to go now. There, I said it, put me in the game coach! Which brings up a boogie man in that I may have duplicated my mistake as I did in 2015 with peaking too soon. So the challenge is to maintain for another three weeks while not climbing over the sharp edge.

How much training is too much/little? Wrong question! The correct question is: what is just the right amount of training? Why heck, it's right between too much and too little. Won't go into all my conspiracy theories about training and its' effect on the body, or that little theory I have about why Big Foot never gets athletes' foot, but for me the right amount ends with about 6 full weeks at 200 miles per week, with plenty of climbing. Then again, I live and train at about a mile altitude, so do that too.

Last minute fussing with gear, as in which of five sleeping bags to take. Tried my 'old' (circa 2015) bag out in the backyard. 45 degree rated bag in 33 degree temps. I lasted until 5 a.m. . So I bought three more. My wife made me do it. One arrived and is very warm, hot even, but heavy. The other two are on there way from Japan. Montbell bags, they are. #1, #2, and #3 models, 800 fill down. Weights from 1 pound 3 ounce (#3) to 2 pounds 2 ounces (#1). Going to be a Goldilocks scenario, one too warm, one too cold, and one just right. Of course I'm a weight whore, so the lightest one will be just right!

Soon to come I will lay out my gear in another blog and go through the thought process (all four brain cells) in selecting the perfect kit. I will not specify which items I'll mail back the second race day though, leaving that to the gentle reader to perceive.

Had to remake my frame bag as the one I specially designed after countless hours of thought (actually dreamed of the design one night) was a great idea, and full of promise. Like the Titanic, it looked slick but had, erm, 'issues'. The new one is simple and works great. Ditto going to remake my feedbags and gas tank bag. Hey, for me sewing bags is both manly - got that? MANLY - and therapy, so no drama.

The end of training represents the start of the Tour Divide, and the end of the TOur Divide is the start of training for the next one. Cycles. Not all are titanium.

A Weighty Conversation With the Lamppost

 Long time ago I last posted. Seems like only yesterday. OK, trite, it does seem like a long time ago. And time is the subject herein.

With age comes reason. A reason for worry, and a reason to either get off yer duff and do something about whatever it is you should do something about, or accept that the 'whatever' is evermore. Whew! You see, I'm seventy now, thus am taken for either a wise aged sage, or a retro-grouch; depends on the listener.

For 25 years my dream/goal/nemesis has been to lose a lot of weight, and get down to 175 pounds. I mean a LOT of weight – as I hit 24X pounds one fine and heavy day years past (the 'X' is left for the reader's imagination). Seeing the second guy hugging me when I looked into the mirror got my attention. I was ticketed on the freeway for hauling an illegal butt. That thing slapping the back of my knees when I walked to the shower was...

Then a good thing happened; Eight years ago I was laid off at work one fine birthday, and set out the door with my severance package and my at-work bike clothes (I had started riding to work a couple times a week just a month before). And I started riding. A lot, for me that is.

The weight started coming off. I started training for the Tour Divide race, and more weight evaporated. Final tally was forty pounds in seven months. And it was great! Except, I gained some back after the race. Drat, back up to 210, then another TD training session and down to 190, then back up, and another year training and down to 194, and up to 213. Roller-coaster.

Here I sit at 180.6 pounds (yes, tenths matter!). Finally, I'm committed to shrinking and keeping my weight at or below 175. Yah, yah, I know, another guy blurbing about weight that nobody else cares about.

But the lamppost does! Lemme 'splain. You see there's this post on my riding route with a crosswalk light button, that is designed for sight impaired people. When pushed, the post says, “Wait!”, or as I imagine, sometimes, “Weight!”. We have conversations.

“Hey post, what am I trying to lose?” “Weight!”.

“Can I lose it all at once or do I have to...”. “WAIT!”.

“See anything different about me, and it's not my hair doo?”. “Weight” .

And then it comes to an end, and I must leave, “The walk sign is on!”

Some people waiting for the light stare at me. Some pretend they're scrutinizing important screens on their cell phones. I just grin and keep talking. At seventy I am allowed to do that, because they never know for sure if it's pudding Tuesday for me at the 'home' tonight, or if I really am having a talk with someone. Yesterday a lady was distancing 6 feet from me while waiting. Then the post and I spoke, and magically she was twelve feet away. Considerate of her, I say.

What's been the result of dropping those nasty pounds? For starters it has been almost fun. Keeping control of my eating, learning how much I need versus what my mouth wants, and seeing that goal get closer has been exciting. Plus I finally am keeping my promise to myself, and that means a lot personally. Overcoming weakness, or taking on a challenge, or, well, you find a phrase that fits. In YodaSpeak: Good feeling, it is.

Six years ago I set a goal to ride 100 miles per week, and have kept up with the effort as best I could. For that period, my weekly overall average is 96 miles, with the lowest year 79 miles, and highest 120. Most of this is on mountain bikes, riding on the road, plus the races I do. Thirty thousand miles all told in those years.

I also am setting new 'records' on my standard riding routes. My detailed riding records allow me to compare both distance and pace per mile. Lately, I've been besting the pace records, and am in fact in the best riding shape (not counting those training TD months) since, well, ever. Bonks used to come on suddenly, with weakness and a hollow, shaky feeling. Bonks now are gradual, with only a progressive loss of power.

Speaking of road bikes, did you know that roadies won't wave back if you're on a mountain bike? Except! One of my mountain bikes has aero bars, and it sets off a mental confusion-short circuit in the roadies' brain cells that eventually causes a minor panic, and they wave back. Mostly.

Back to my story.

I'm really trying not to say, “I don't feel seventy”, because a) that is what all old people say, so cliché, and b) that presupposes I've been seventy once before and know how it feels. So far, no decline (in fact an increase) in riding performance, and I sleep less than before the weight loss. Recovery seems the same, and I climb hills faster. Oh, and my butt doesn't hurt as much.

I look smaller and...older in the mirror. Jolly Saint Nick now looks like Grinch after a bad sleep. All that extra skin sags a bit, although I hear in time it will tighten up. On the other hand, I now wear a pants size smaller than my son – woohoo!

Might not try out for the Olympics, as I hear it takes a lot of time out of a schedule, but I am looking forward to the next bikepacking trip. Being stuck in Covid-VIlle currently, so far only planning and possibilities are in the mix, but even that can be fun.

“So lamppost, any chance I can bikepack soon?” “WAIT!”

Comforting Your Body and Butt Buddy

 

All bikepacking journeys begin the same; Hope and aspiration, excitement and, to be honest, a bit of trepidation. Some journeys end when the body demands fair treatment, and long days become ordeals that may violate the Geneva convention on torture.

I'm speaking of sore butts. And numb hands. You see, for most of my 67 past riding years I rode in some pain. Often a lot of pain. After literally dozens of saddles, I came to the conclusion that none worked, although some were 'less miserable' on the Butt-O-Meter.

Until...

Several years ago I noticed that my right leg was functionally shorter than the other, by about a half inch. My right foot kept unclipping out of the SPDs, and I could feel it floating at the top of each peddle stroke. I tried cleat shims. No! No, because hike-a-bike became miserable, and walking around with a metal lump on one shoe was...just no. Besides, couldn't clip in reliably, and didn't make any difference anyhow. Tried lowering the saddle to compensate. No, as my other leg started hurting, and peddling efficiency went bye-bye.

Then I read about the leather Saddle Fairy, who's velvet butt is tenderly kissed by the comfy magic abounding beside the babbling Brooks, slathered in mystic Proofide. “Oh”, said I, “This must be the fount of comfort”. And I sippeth of the Koolaid that is leather. Alas, They Hurt. All five leather saddles, three brands, they all hurt. A lot. Naughty saddles! I even had a visit to the doc (and missed a bikepacking trip) because of...well, one of my acorns got pinched and bruised by the nasty, hard saddle!

The miserable things were adjusted every way imaginable, and at all angles (two of which are not legal in any of the fifty States) with not but bad luck. In disgust, the dead cowhide contraptions were made sacrifice to the eBay God, and I resigned myself to a fate of burning bottoms and a pain filled existence.

After aborting another Tour Divide, riding on my least miserable synthetic saddle, this time for nasty saddle sores, and en-route visit to the doc for infected same, I feared that my long adventures were over.

Butt...(ha, I made a pun)...I noticed that the right sides of all my saddles were worn more than the left. And the worst sores were always on my right. And the saddle trim on the right side was bent down a bit. Hmmm.

Turns out that I a) sit asymmetrically on the saddle, b) have a functional leg shortness on the right side, and c) all synthetic saddles put more pressure on the right side each ride, and spring back to deliver pain the next ride.

What I needed was a saddle that would deform to fit my warped arse, and stay that way. Something like a leather saddle!

So I dug the remaining leather saddle out of the heap-O-failed-beasties. It was cowering under the saddle I call the 'Scrotimizer'. Then, I noticed that it was slightly deformed on the right side, with the leather just a wee bit lower than the left side. Thinking that a relief slot may help in letting my right side squash the seat lower, I cut a slot. Zooming forward, past the leather break-in agony, several hundred, indeed near a thousand miles later, the saddle deformed, dropping the right side lower by half an inch, and the pain lessened to the point that I didn't think about my saddle on rides, until I, well, I thought about the saddle. And it was good. Not great, butt (ha) good.

In my new found delirium, I danced for joy (OK, not danced. You never want to see me dance), and bought another leather saddle, this time with a slot. Same break-in pain, butt (I crack ( 'crack', a pun within a pun!) myself up) faster and same permanent deformation, same 'more comfortable' feeling. And another leather saddle, this time a different width, and yet another, and another! All of them worked. Er, except Selle Anatomica. Three. Sucked. Seriously, worst sucked ever.

Now all of my bikes, and I've got more than a few, wear leather. It's the latest thing, and sooo fashionable.

Then there's hand pain and numbness. Terminated another TD for numb hands. Ever try shifting a loaded mountain bike by reaching over with the other hand because one hand won't work? Just say 'No'. Turns out some of hand issues were related to saddles. If'n you're not sitting just so on the saddle, then too much weight on the hands results, and presto!

Padded gloves. Don't mention padded gloves. All padding in gloves is located almost, but not quite precisely, to the millimeter, in the wrong spots. Need to keep pressure off the ulnar nerve? Hey, we've got a glove with extra padding where the nerve is, that compresses your nerve even more! What engineer thought that the way to relive pressure is to add more pressure? Find me a glove with s-l-o-t-s where the nerves are. As it is, my least painful gloves are none, followed by all leather palms. Oh, and I don't get hand numbness as much anymore, even with padded gloves, as I use aero bars a lot. Glove engineers? Phooey, I say!

Think of all this as a slow moving, homemade bike-fit train wreck, but in reverse. The astute reader, and aren't you all in that category, will say, “Get thee to a bike fitter”. Know any local fitters that a) Aren't 20 year old shaved leg racers who b) know what bikepacking involves, or c) don't ask what 'category' you're in, and d) restrain from telling me to “Bring your road bike in for a fit and you can transfer the measurements to your mountain bike” ? Me neither.

Often self-reliance is the best, in the 'end' (dang, another...).