Smedium: New Clothes Sizes for Cyclists

I Propose A New Size

“Where’s your ass?” my wife asked.  “I know you have a butt, a nice butt, but I don’t see it.”  Apparently my caboose got derailed in these 33W X 33L jeans I’m wearing.  I think I pulled them off the hanger from the pre-vegan section of my closet.  Maybe I’ve slightly neglected my personal sex appeal over 14 years of marriage, but my wife deserves to see my fine cyclocross sculpted rear bumper.  Two days later, the golden e-mail hit her smartphone, “Tonight only, 40% off at Banana Republic.”  It was mutually decided, skip the easy Monday night at the gym for an hour or two doing dressing room gymnastics.  Oh boy, it got gymnastical.

With four plaid collared button down dress shirts, a baby blue merino wool sweater and a long-john-esque “waffled” long sleeve tee, Joe or Nick or Kevin or one of the Jonas Brothers working at Banana Republic showed me to my stall.  As far as the button downs, I’m upset to report I’m a size Smedium.  From the last time I bought nice shirts and today, I’ve probably lost 12-15 pounds.  Staring in the mirror with the medium, I could gather 5-6 inches of fabric around my middle.  Dammit, it took me months of intervals and hummus to earn this waist.  I want to show it off.  So with the hesitation of a former large, I slipped on the small. 

Hmm...not too poochy in the small.

I could sort of see the last uncyclocrossed remnants of my pooch showing.  I’m not 6-pack sculpted, more of a two-pack.  Like the woman in the dressing room next to me, I went back and forth between the two sizes: small, medium, small, medium.  “Welcome to my world,” I could hear my wife saying.  I spent so much time in that dressing room with so many items I wondered if the Jonas Brother was getting suspicious of shoplifting.  I opted for the small, yet still puzzled.  Why do pants come in so many different sizes stores practically need a card catalog to organize the shelves by size and style, yet shirts at Banana Republic have only four sizes for men, small through XL?  So there’s my case for Smedium (SM) and Mediarge (ML).

As for the jeans, I walked into the store saggin’ no ass pre-vegan 33 squares, 33W x 33L.  Going sub-33 was new territory for me, so I sent Jonas ahead, armed with 32’s, 31’s and even a pair of 30’s.  The 32’s were clown pants.  I hooked the waist with my thumbs.  I could probably shove 3 summer sausages down the front of them.  The butt looked like denim drapery.  So I got extreme.  Wiggling and shimmying, I had to get gymnastical to get the 30’s on.  Beyond surprised, they buttoned right up and fell flat on the hips.  However, the thighs were so tight they could double as muscle recovery wear.  It’s the cyclists curse. 

Those Quads Need A Belt

You ride your butt off, try to eat healthy and lose weight, but your newly acquired Andre’ Greipel in training quads and hammies get so big you need to opt for the larger size.  I walked out of the dressing room without pants, new pants, and this thought.  I propose adding three dimensional sizing to men's pants.  The “T” could mean thigh or tree-trunk, or for skinny people, tent pole.  Instead of 31W x 33L, for those with 20 inch hams like me, we’d have 30W x 33L x 21T.  One way or another, my wife deserves to oogle my ass.

Cyclo Christmas Hand-Me-Down Style

He’s ridden over 4000 miles and doesn’t own a pair of bike shorts.  Up until Friday he’s been riding in long black thermal tights (see photo).  It was near 90 when I unloaded the cycling care package on my brother Friday afternoon on our visit to see family in Milwaukee.  He said it wasn’t too bad riding a Wisconsin summer in tights, “You get a nice sweat going, like a wrestler in training.”  I choked back my scoff at his naivety and Midwestern practicality.  He’s got kids.  Even with a solid corporate banking job, I suspect there’s some sort of crazy rationalization between spending $40 on bike shorts and his children eating dinner.

That's my brother.  That looks like a booger.

Riding in tights is probably one of the reasons my brother dropped the beer belly and is down to 150 pounds since he started riding last year, that and the fact that he’s oblivious to the weight of bike accessories.  Attached to his bike is a headlight and battery, a steel attachment for a kiddie trailer, a heavy duty rear rack and saddle bag that feels so heavy I unzip it to make sure it’s not hiding an Easter ham.  It’s not, but there’s enough tools in there rebuild Milwaukee’s Northern Suburbs should a tornado strike while riding.  I tell him we won’t need the lights for our ride.

4000+ Miles on Marin and Conti Race Kings

The wired bike computer on his Marin 29er crested over 4000 miles in the past 14 months.  He looks great, but being only my 2^nd time seeing him since he took up cycling, I’m still not used to him looking as thin as me.  I can feel the brotherly competition between our mileage and weight brewing.  His Conti Race King tires are balding.  His jawline is as sharp as a granite cornerstone.  From his tightly cinched belt, he still hasn’t comes to grips that he can wear 32 inch jeans and Banana Republic size small fitted tee shirts.  Either that, or he thinks his kids will have to skip dinner if he buys a good looking $14 T-shirt that fits.  I figured 4000 miles of riding a 30 pound 29er in tights for more than a year proved a commitment to the sport worthy of some hand me downs from me, the older brother.

Ohio's Serpent Mound

I pulled out a plastic Kroger grocery bag and whumped it on my mother’s kitchen counter.  His eyes lit up.  “Bibs!  Bro!  No way!”  He had no idea the Cyclo-Christmas I was about to drop on him.  It wasn’t only bibs.  It was two complete matching dark blue BioWheels team kits: bibs, jersey and a new-old pair of gloves.  I explained the design wasn’t a sperm, but a depiction on Ohio’s famous Serpent Mound.  He read the sponsor logos on the jersey pockets.  I hadn’t worn the shorts in nearly 2 years.  The stitching was frayed on one pair and the padded chamois on the other had lost a bit of loft, but to him they were his new bike shorts. 

Me and my Teammate/Brother Mike

Then I pulled out the second bag, a third…and, a fourth.  As big as 52 tooth sprockets his eyes widened nearly eeking out a tear.  “Arm warmers!?”  He questioned.  I had to explain how they worked.  The chuckle was worth the price of all the free bike goodies right there.  Bag #2 featured 2 complete yellow and blue kits with arm warmers, matching socks and gloves.  Bag #3 featured an even earlier vintage in pretty good condition.  I started to feel guilty for having all this still useable cycling gear sit in my closet so long.  Bag #4 featured odds and ends like a yellow and green 8 year old Verge thermal vest, a lighter wind vest, a set of Pearl Izumi shoe covers with a slightly broken zipper and a pair of Smith sunglasses with 3 different interchangeable lenses.  He grabbed the blue kit and slipped into the bathroom.

“Yeah!!!”  The kitchen erupted in cheers from my wife, my mother and me.  He looked sharp, like one of the guys on the team albeit a bit hairier.  Now I found a tear tickling the corner of my eye.  I’ve been racing bikes since the mid 90’s, and for the first time I was about to paceline with my brother.  We threw our legs over our bikes and put in a solid 40 miles, my wife and I and our new teammate…Mike.

You’re Sooo Fat, Compared to Janez Brajkovic

Women were floored.  Self loathing quickly followed.  No one went for seconds on the brownies and ice cream.  I was not immune either.  While at a barbecue yesterday watching the Janez Brajkovic Athlete Profile on the Versus coverage of the Critérium du Dauphiné, the room was shocked to learn that Brako is 5’10” and weighs 127 pounds, not kilos.  I’ll let that register for a second or two.  One.  Two.  Brako is five foot ten inches tall and weighs a scant one hundred twenty seven pounds.  Ahhhh!  There’s the look on your face.  You haven’t been that light since (insert awkward adolescent moment here.)  Okay.  Pick your jaw up off the floor because you're good enough, you're smart enough, and doggone it, people like you.  Yes, a man weighs less than you, is faster, stronger and way more fit.  Tripple snap and deal with it sista.

Janez Brajkovic of Team Radio Shack won the Critérium du Dauphiné yesterday.  Bracko is a strong man, albeit a baby-faced blush-cheeked man from Slovenia with better teeth than Contador.  Contador, despite the pistol whippin’, wins the sideburn contest.  I was at a barbecue with way more women than men yesterday.  Lesbian or straight, the news still stung a bit.  You could almost hear the gears spinning in their heads, “well I’m 5’6” and I weigh…never mind what I weigh…I gotta try not to look shocked…oh crap…I look shocked…more Sangria please!”  I was not immune either, except I’m not afraid to show the weight on my driver’s license.  Bracko is 2 inches shorter and 35 pounds lighter than me.  Oh bujeebus.  Pass the grilled asparagus.


So we're all fat, compared to Janez Brajkovic.  Well he's Slovenian.  Maybe he grew up with sisters that aspired to be Eastern European gymnasts.  It's possible.  Maybe the food truck stops at Boonen's house in Belgim and Cancellara's house in Switzerland before making it to the estate of Brajkovic with whatever is left over.  Maybe McDonalds doesn't have a franchise in Slovenia.  Fat Chance.  Here's the site.  (For Pulp Fiction Fans, a Big Mac is still a Big Mac in Slovenia.)  Slovenia borders the Adriatic Sea on the southwest, Croatia on the south and east, Hungary  on the northeast, and Austria on the north, which completely explains why most Americans can’t find Slovenia on a map, until you add that Slovenia borders Italy on the west.  I like to call Bracko the FASTest guy in SLOvenia.  I'm also an idiot.

So there’s no excuse.  You’re fatter than Brako.  If you want to do something about it, you do have a few choices.  You can gravitate toward things where being overweight offers an advantage like hosting a daytime talk show.  Holla Wendy!!!  You could play first base for the Milwaukee Brewers, ala Prince Fielder.  Or, if you’re really spoke-bent on being a better cyclist, you can eat a little smarter and train a little better… because you're good enough, you're smart enough, and doggone it; you can climb like Bracko if you put your mind to it.  

158 Yo!

Out of frustration for weighing 170, I wrote a blog entry titled “Don’t Stop Riding The Elevator” on Friday, January 25th of this year. We had spent the previous fall moving from KY to OH and the cycling had definitely suffered. That day, I set a goal to be 158, the lightest weight I can remember as a competitive cyclist, the weight where my Grandma says “Joseph, you’re too thin,” the weight where my wife says, “ooh baby you feel skinny,” by the Mohican 100 MTB race in May. Things didn’t go as planned.

Shortly after that entry, I tweaked my knee in a freak push broom incident and went in for meniscus surgery on my knee. As quick as my recovery went, the goal shifted to the beginning of CX training season in August. Again, a setback. I nearly bent my thumb back to my elbow when I clipped a tree in a mountain bike race in late June/early July, which made gripping a handlebar quite painful for 4-6 weeks. So, I started running and doing more old school core stuff including jumping jacks.

I recently had a birthday, got some good stuff like this adventure book "Roads To Quoz" and two new Yakima rails for the roof top bike rack. As it turns out, the best birthday gift, I gave to myself. Today, after my Monday morning ritual, I set down the copy of Outside Magazine, looked at my another-year-older carcass in the mirror and thought, “Huh, I look kind of skinny.” My bod had sort of a “V” shape, sort of, as if the bottom of the “V” was slightly melted. Setting myself up for disappointment, I told myself, “Uh, you look about 160-161.” I stepped on the scale and there it was…158.

If I had any left in me, I would’ve crapped my shorts.

There’s some entertaining, marginally motivational and possibly useful cycling oriented weight loss stuff in the previous articles from the old blog on AOL, “161st Street,” “Snackin’ With The Biggest Loser” and “Don’t Stop Riding The Elevator.” One thing is for sure, you won’t lose any weight sitting on your arse and reading it. Put down those Cheetos, go do something that makes you feel good about yourself, and come back to read ‘em later.