Don't Un-friend the Bathroom Scale

So, like many women, I’m reading an issue of Self magazine while on the toilet, except, I’m not a woman.  Guys will read anything put in front of them while in the moment.  I’ve been known to read the ingredients of shampoo bottles.  “Hmm… I never knew Aveda was in Minnesota.”  Self is a well done kitchen sink women’s magazine with advice on everything from fitness and food to love and fashion.  After a man is done paging through the pictures of women bending over Bosu balls wearing beach volleyball outfits, he starts reading articles.  He bounces from “Toning the Tummy in Ten Minutes” to” 6 Ways Light Up the Bedroom When the Lights Are Out.”  Within minutes, he’s overwhelmed, filled with self doubt and reaches for the comforting factual label of the shampoo bottle.  While I may not understand why bright argyle socks and ankle boots are part of this fall’s hottest looks, I do know the best way to approach the cyclist’s nemesis, the scale.

The reason I was reading Self magazine in the first place was because I was a man on a mission, taking the steps necessary to get an accurate comparable measurement of my weight.  It’s science dammit!  It matters which foot you step in the scale with first.  It’s not a 50/50 daily proposition where either you’re fatter than yesterday or your not.  Weighing yourself like that, especially daily, is closer to the odds of Powerball than a coin flip.  No wonder you want to unfriend the scale.  In your diet, work life and exercise routine, Tuesday is never the same as Wednesday.  You need to tip the scale of the scale in your favor by flushing out the variables.

Eating a vegan diet, this was not my first flush of the morning.  Carnivores won’t get that joke.  My scale ritual is a bi-weekly Monday morning process that involves standing, sitting, a few sips of hot coffee, then sitting again.  Self magazine may softly describe this as emptying yourself.  Remember, if you’re on the toilet, by definition you’re losing weight.  However, it’s not so much as trying to be as light as possible, but trying to be as accurate and comparable as possible.  Welcome to Nerdville.

The Doctor’s office is the worst.  You want to scratch her eyes out every time she points you in the direction of the scale with your jacket still on and your cellphone in your pocket.  “Step on the scale,” the nurse says.  Like the bailiff hauling you out of the courtroom to the gallows, you frantically try to jettison anything heavy.  Clink!  Car keys.  Kick!  Shoes.  It boggles my mind how they can be trusted to prescribe accurate amounts of medication when they have no clue how to measure the weight of a human body.  She plays with the weights.  You hold your breath when she grabs that big 50lb piece and slides it to the right.  You sigh when she reverses and grabs the 25.  Before the teeter totter even stalls, she’s writing down a number.  It’s so frustrating.  Surprisingly, most of us do the same thing to ourselves at home.  Raise your hand if you’ve ever weighed yourself with wet hair. 

So here are my rules for hitting the scale with success:

Same Tile, Facing East

WEIGH BI-WEEKLY:  The scale is like the stock market.  You can’t sweat the daily ups and downs when your focus is on retirement income.  Like meeting with a financial advisor, Bi-weekly is more or less a check in to see if things are moving the right direction.  If you’re reading this blog, you probably eat fairly healthy and workout nearly daily.  Trust in your good habits.  A pound a week is quite an accomplishment.  Two weeks is more likely.  Bi-weekly weighing gives you 13 days of waking up happy, or at least not wanting to pound the scale with a sledgehammer. 

FIND YOUR DAY AND TIME: You’re likely to be lighter on a Monday morning after a weekend of nice long bike rides and a peaceful Sunday night, than on a Thursday, after Wednesday night’s steakhouse social.  If you work odd hours, think about the day and time when you’re likely to be lightest and stick with it.  That’s your day.  As for a time, pick the earliest waking moment, after taking care of business, but before breakfast and a shower.  

WEIGH ONLY YOUR BODY: Aside from your wedding ring, drop the pajamas and lose the watch.  You’d be surprised how much flip flops, socks, undies and a t-shirt weigh.  Besides that, unless you’re wearing the exact same ensemble every time you step on the scale, your weights won’t be comparable.  A large cotton t-shirt weighs more than a dry-fit running shirt.    

BE COMPARABLE: I’m almost savant-like in my process.  I place the scale on the same tile of the bathroom floor every time, the scale always facing east.  I approach the scale the same way, right foot first.  It’s no different than a pre-race warm-up ritual. 

REALIZE LIMITATIONS: Keep in mind, most bathroom scales don’t measure fractions of a pound.  For me, the scale read 154 this morning on the first step.  I was hoping for better.  However 154 could be anywhere between 154.0 and 154.9, nearly a full pound in slop!  Trust that if even if your weight is flat after being good for two weeks, that you probably on track, but its not showing up on the scale.  Or, sit down, re-read the shampoo bottle again, and see if you can muster a 153.  It works!

Lose Yourself in 2012-13 Cyclocross

I’m guessing this is the point in his training where Michael Phelps fired up the bong, aka The Rest Week.  While I don’t condone pulling a Phelps, with the sun of this year’s World Championship cyclocross season rising on the horizon, I clearly see why he needed the break.  In order to be the most decorated Olympian in history, he needed to be Mike for a while.  Go to Vegas.  Play video games.  Blow off practice.  Walk around with a case serial killer bed head hair.  On July 23^rd, my coach, Chris Mayhew at JBV Coaching, assigned me a two week break from riding.  He knows this season is special, a once in a lifetime perhaps.  Yesterday was the last day of slacking before a season that’ll end with the World Championships. 

Breathe in.  Breathe out.

I’m trying to balance levity with the magnitude of the opportunity.  Maybe you’re holding back your excitement too, and that’s why I sort of feel alone in the pursuit.  Even with the flame burning in London, I’m not getting the feeling that many grasp what a gift the 2012-13 cyclocross season calendar is.  Locally in the Ohio Valley we have clinics featuring Jeremy Powers and Kaitlin Antonneau, a cyclocross series in OVCX that’s on par with New England and the Northwest, the Cincy 3 Cyclocross Festival, Cross After Dark, USGP races in Madison and Louisville, a huge UCI weekend in Chicago, Nationals nearby, a Worlds warm up race in Cincinnati and then, finally the Cyclocross World Championships in Louisville for both Masters and Elite.  Oh-My-God!  What a Cyclocross Season!

Harbin Park, site of Cincy 3 CX Festival, circa 2001

12 years ago, you had your choice of three races: A, B, or C. The course was hastily marked with flags and orange spray paint.  This year, you’ll see national jerseys on the backs of European stars wiz past your nose through the fog of your frozen breath.  I’m not saying cyclocross is going to disappear in 2014, but right here, right now, for many of us this season is the best chance we’ll ever have to plant our cleats as high as we can on the summit of cross mountain.  This is the perfect opportunity to grab the low hanging cowbells.  Without pounding a nail in the cross-coffin, for those on the upper end of the Masters demo, you’ll likely never have this chance again without dipping into your 401(k) for plane tickets and baggage fees to Europe.  This is your Eminem “Lose Yourself” moment. 

Marshall Mathers turns 40 in October, racing age 41.

2008 OVCX Gun Club Carnage

Oddly, I feel almost alone in the pursuit, and mine has nothing to do with the podium.  Outside the voices in my head, I’m not feeling a buzz, your buzz.  Maybe it has something to do with the individualistic approach we have to cyclocross or cycling in general.  We know better than to hang our hopes on one race.  Dreams can be dashed on a sharp root or a slick corner.  We purse our lips and swallow back notions of excitement, in case they are dashed with a 25mph header into a sand pit.  But this season is different.  Never before have we had so many major events, so many chances to feel a little glory. 

Masters 45-49 World Champs Seeding Startline Jan 2012

So, afford yourself the chance and share your excitement.  Get off the fence.  Register.  Let the tiny cowbells in your head crescendo into some thing on par with the bum-bum-BA-bum-bum rumble of the Olympic Theme kettle drum.  Share your goals on your Facebook status.  Remember what a treasure it is to have that photo of yourself towing the start line at Worlds.  Hire a coach.  Snatch up that non-stop January flight from Denver to Louisville that I saw online for $262 round trip.  Volunteer as a course marshall.  Book the hotel for that faraway race or pro clinic you’re on the fence about.  Show up early for the juniors.  Stay late for the post race party.  Create a Power Point to convince your family that Chicago, Madison, Cincinnati and Louisville are wonderful places to visit in the winter.  The next six months will fly by and we need to make the most of it.  I can’t wait to be wearing a rain jacket, rubber boots, eating a waffle, drinking from a flask and standing next to you as we hang over the banners at Worlds screaming “Allez!”

Cross Nation, this year is special and we need more cowbell.

Evasive Maneuvering: Bucket Truck of Death

Confident, the index and middle finger on my right hand began to squeeze the brake lever trigger.  It would send my rear wheel skidding out to the right at 25mph.  My left knee augered away from my bike to take the initial impact of my left hip, hand and handlebars hitting the rain soaked oily pavement.  Coming down the Gilbert Avenue hill into downtown Cincinnati I judged I had about a two foot ceiling and a 10-12 foot gap to shoot between the wheels and under an energy company bucket truck.  I think I would’ve made it.  Then it stopped.

Not The Exact Bucket Truck, But You Get The Idea

I tacked right and skirted around the front bumper, the truck jutting two-thirds of the way into my lane.  I looked back at the driver.  His window was down, bare arm on the frame.  We locked eyes.  It’s at these moments you wish you had something clever to say, something like, “What the F*** Bucket Head!”  Like Peter Sagan contesting a sprint infraction, the back of my Italian left hand leaped into the air toward the driver and the only quip my mouth could muster was “Dooooood!”  So I’m only a quarter Italian.

As I was coming down the hill in the left lane to make the left turn at the light only 150 meters away, the bucket truck was coming up on the other side of the median then made a sudden U-turn midway into my path to the light.  Had my bike rolled 20-25 feet closer I know I would’ve squeezed that lever.  At 25mph, a bike travels 36.6 feet per second.  Looking back, I estimate I had a little more than a half second to waffle on the option of grabbing a fist full of brake and taking myself human bowling. 

The light was red.  I slowed to a stop in the left hand turn lane.  The truck pulled up in the far right.  With no one else at the intersection, he could’ve quickly turned and drove away, but he stopped for me.  His eyes were wide, visibly shaken.  He shouted sincerely out the window, “Sorry.  My bad.”  I half smiled.  Considering my stupidity for riding too fast for conditions, I waved him off saying, “It’s all good,” and turned back up the hill for my 5^th hill repeat.

Choosing Cycling Socks: Win with Pearl Izumi

Win Pearl Izumi Socks Below

Admit it.  When you ride past a store window you look at your reflection, your flat-backed position, your dandy color coordinatedness.  In your best Dave Chappelle voice you shake your head and say, “Mmm.  Damn.  I’m one fine looking two-wheeled specimen.”  Like fly-fishing, cycling is half fashion show.  Rolling past Cincinnati’s Verdin bell and clock factory on Riverside Drive, I checked myself out in the reflection of the blacked out windows.  Holy hell!  My socks were as hideous as rubber waders.  Tall white socks with light blue stripes stuck out of the top of my red accented jet black Pearl Izumi shoes like aero bars on a group ride.  It was a triple-snap-clash sista. 

My Team Jersey

Getting ready for a work meeting, my wife stands in front of the full length mirror.  She kicks off one pair of shoes for another, keeps the bag, but ditches the belt.  She asks if the shirt looks better tucked in a little or a lot.  “A little tucked in,” I answer.  There’d be a lot less dorky looking male cyclists if they took a tip from a primping business woman and wheeled their entire ensemble (bike, shorts, jersey, helmet, shoes, sunglasses and all) in front of a full length mirror. 

Drunk Artist Rendering of Perfect Sock

Instead of learning from my wife, my fashion feeble man brain thought I needed tall blue cycling socks…you know, to match my blue and white BioWheels team kit.  I typed the exact phrase into the image search of Yahoo.  Magically 300 pictures of tall blue socks appeared in every shade, length and color combination imaginable.  Row by row, page by page, I dismissed every last one of them as too aqua, too tall for UCI, not enough style.  I went so far as to drink 3 beers and design the perfect sock with Microsoft Crayon 2.0.

I was Mister Pitt, Elaine’s incessantly picky boss in a sock buying episode of TV’s Seinfeld.  He screams, “I want a decent sock that’s comfortable THAT WILL STAY ON MY FOOT!”  Mister Pitt proves what has eluded scientists for centuries.  The fashion part of the male brain can only decipher two variables, in his case, comfort and tightness.  Shorts match jersey.  Bar tape matches bike.  Socks match team kit.  Throw in patterns, design, helmets, shoes, gloves and glasses and the male fashion brain drops to its knees like Elaine, covers its head and screams away the impending frustration induced aneurism.  Hence, most men end up with two pair of work shoes, black and brown. 

Socks Bridge Jersey & Shorts to Shoes & Bike

Two pair of shoes!  That was the key right there.  I have two pairs of cycling shoes.  My road shoes are black with red accents (at left).  My MTB shoes are white with green accents.  My shoes match my bikes.  I needed socks that bridge the gap between team kit and my bike and shoes.  Like my wife’s belts, shoes and bags, cycling socks tie the ensemble together.  I virtually rolled each look in front of the full length mirror.  I ended up choosing three pair of socks, one for each look …road, cyclocross and mountain. 

WIN THREE PAIR OF SOCKS FROM PEARL IZUMI:

1-Consider your three favorite cycling looks: road, mountain, cyclocross.

2-Click here and choose 3 pair of Pearl Izumi socks to complete your outfits.

3-Post a comment with your 3 choices (style/color/size) by 11:59p 7/25/12.

RULES OF THE ROAD: Winner will be chosen randomly from all entries.  “Anonymous” comment entries will not be considered.  Please be aware that we’ll need to get in touch with you, so include an email in your profile and/or “like” us on Facebook so we can get in touch with you if need be.  Winner will be announced on 7/26/12.  Good luck and thanks for reading!

Odometer: The Nuances of the Number Nine

It’s like missing the spare, leaving one pin standing.  Hot looking girls are a perfect dime not a California 9.  It’s a gymnast getting docked a tenth for a slight wobble on an otherwise 10.0 vault.  Lately, as you'll see interspersed between paragraphs, every ride I’ve done recently has come up 9’s: 49 miles, 59 miles, 29 miles.  Sure, I could roll the extra distance, take a circle around the block or noodle an out and back down the street, but that’s questionable ethics isn’t it?  Every mile must have a purpose. 

July 5^th The Full Nelson Ride: 49.7

For a cyclist, a ride distance ending in 9 is the marathon equivalent of running a 26.1.  Track athletes don’t do the 99 meter dash.  No one takes a picture of their car’s odometer with 99,999 miles.  They wait for the big 100k before locking the steering wheel with their knee and snapping the Facebook photo.

June 30^th BioWheels Sat Morn Beatdown: 59.3

There’s people I know, dirty dishonest cheating people that I stick my tongue out at, that’ll go the extra mile or tenth to get over the hump.  Not me.  I prefer to stew in disappointment and despair, cuz that’s the way uh huh uh huh I like it (KC & The Sunshine Band.)  I don’t think that counts.  The ride was over when you arrived back at the parking lot, the house, the bridge or wherever it was over. 

June 28^th Mariemont Dirt: 29.5

However I once, strong armed by riding companions, dipped my toes in the foul water and rode the out and back of shame to turn a 98 mile ride into a century.  I’m still not sure putting off the shower and sandwich an extra 10 minutes was worth it.  It certainly felt like cheating, not quite something I’d bring up in a confessional, but  more like using white-out on a term paper. 

June 27^th NKY Amsterdam Loop: 29.5

Noodling out the extra mile doesn’t count for me.  You either ride 100 miles or 50 miles or 25 miles or you don’t.  Circling in the parking lot or a zip around the block at 10mph is not riding.  The only way to legitimately tack on mileage to a ride that may fall short is to add purpose.  Otherwise, it’s a sad pathetic empty mile.   

June 26^th Dayton Silver Grove: 29.8

So here’s how to ethically add the distance to your ugly ride that ends in nine.  Do something special with that extra mile.  Ride to the store and buy your companions a coke or an ice cream.  Take that mile and see how far you can go no-handed.  Go after the nearest Strava segment.  Go back to the intersection where you saw the penny on the road and pick it up.  Hammer that extra mile as hard as you can.  Bikefucious says, “100 miles is not a century if not all are ridden with purpose.”