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.

Dear Doper Revisited

This Is The Real Me

Dear Doper,

I just want you to know that every time I watch a race I fake cheering for you.  My cowbell is battery operated.  My screams are a smart phone app.  My camera doesn't have a memory card.  You thought when you raced up that mountain that I was on the sidelines pouring my guts out for you.  Turns out I wear a football helmet with deer antlers and hang out on mountain passes all the time.  It was all a sham.  

Remember when you saw me running with my Belgian flag and stabbing my devil’s pitch fork into the sky?  You thought you witnessed my pure emotion, elation, joy, anger, and sympathy.  But, that wasn't true.  I save my woo-hoos and tears for things I truly care about.  

Did you really think that when I shouted at my big screen, spilled my Mountain Dew on the carpet, and scared the cats by jumping on the cushions that I was truly cheering for you?  I was totally bluffing when the attacks unfolded.  I can’t believe you fell for the old pound the sofa and hide my face behind my fingers trick.  

When cases of doping in cycling arise, I wish that was true.  However, every time I watch a race, I show my true feelings and emotions for the sport of cycling.  I cherish my autographs and photos.  I plan vacations around major races.  That's the true me.  Whether it’s bonking and losing 20 minutes to the leaders or kissing the podium girl on the cheek, I expect I’m seeing the true you. 

Sincerely,

Joe Bellante

(Joe Note: This is the 3rd incarnation of this post.  When news of doping in the sport arise, I revisit it and question it's relevancy.  Since the first post in July of 2007, my feelings haven't changed.)

Alberto Contador May Sign With Team Alberto Contador p/b Alberto

(Nose Hit News Service: Spain) In a move we all saw coming, amidst the swirling rumors of stalled contract talks with Astana, Alberto Contador will reportedly sign with a new team for the 2011 cycling season; Team Alberto Contador presented by Alberto.  This new UCI Pro tour team managed by Alberto Contador, is slated to sign other top named riders, namely Alberto Contador, Alberto Contador, Alberto Contador and of course Alberto Contador.  “I just got fed up with all the controversy over people saying I’m not a team player.  So, I go on my own.  Who needs teammates when you end up attacking them anyway,” questioned the team owner.  “It’s a win-win!,” the team manager exclaimed in broken English, “we only need two maybe four bicycle, someone to hand Alberto musette bag at feed zone and that’s uh about it.  Alberto’s brother will book the hotels, give massage and drive team car.  All Alberto left to do is fire the pistol and slip on the yellow jersey.”  He has a point.

Although details remain sketchy, rumored sponsors are Alberto VO5 as primary sponsor and Alberto’s Cookies, fancy schmancy Alberto Guardiani designer shoes and famed Salsa musician Jose Alberto.  “It’s all about Alberto,” Alberto raved, “and I enjoy good shoes, good cookies, good music and my fantastic looking jet black Spanish hair.”  Asked if Astana decided to drop him because of his brown tooth that he has yet to get whitened or capped despite earning over two million Euros with his previous Tour De France wins, Contador denied comment.  

Paradise Paved Over

That could be a photo of a country road you’d love to ride, a trickling creek to one side, rural homes dotting the other. (Photo: BioWheels-Mitch Graham) However, had you known Binning Road in its former state of dilapidated decrepit neglect, this photo might make you sad. It’s not often a road cyclist doesn’t celebrate new blacktop. Most recently, many of Northern Kentucky’s rural roads have been repaved, and they make you smile even more when you ride them. However, Binning Road, between Roundbottom and Hwy222, connecting Milford with Batavia northeast of Cincinnati was famous for its inner tube eating, death grip on the bars potholes and broken pavement. If the competitive group was in tact before Binning, especially the stretch between Roundbottom and the bridge, no doubt it’d be shredded on the way out. Binning taught teammates how to trust each other. Binning taught riders how to relax the death grip and really handle a road bike. Like a hometown Paris Roubaix sector of cobbles, Binning taught racers how to think ahead and get to the front. Binning also made local bike shops a tiny fortune in inner tube sales.

(Here’s what Binning was like before it got paved! Well…at least it felt that way.)

Like an ugly dog, for the past nine years, I learned to love Binning Road and its potholes, broken pavement, uneven surfaces, and the section where the road narrowed leaving only a double track or a dirt berm choice to ride around the rocks that had fallen from the adjacent railroad tracks. It was the worst road and the best road for all the same reasons. Cyclists chose Binning Road to avoid the busy Highway 50 when traveling from Round Bottom Road to Hwy 222 between Batavia and Milford. However, the real reason cyclists chose to ride Binning still exists: its fast-flat corners through its ever changing-with-the-seasons scenic valley farm fields. That vista might even be better now that you can unglue your eyes from the wheel in front of you. You might find yourself saying, “Wow, I had no idea what a pretty valley this is.”

At the root of it, Binning Road is dead to those that loved to push the pace while those with less nerve slid a finger down the brake lever and has new life to those who ever dropped a chain, flatted, or lost a something out of their seatbag. I’m going to miss the beat-up old Binning, but chances are I won’t be missing my tail light or my water bottle next time I come home from a ride.

A Morbidoni Accordian, A Yappy Dog...

What do the following items have in common?

In retrospect, all of these items could be in my house.  My mom played accordian.  AO Smith had a factory in Milwaukee where I grew up.  The neighbors had a terrier.  I once wanted a bangin' sub woofer in my Honda Civic hatchback.  I used to be really into fishing.  That planter box would make my patio pop!  And I confess, I once had a 156 average in bowling during my youth.  However, Abby the terrier included, according to the listed weights on their respective websites, they each weigh 16 pounds, more than my 15.56 pound Jamis Xenith below.

I told the guys at the shop to shut up when they told me the weight.  We recalibrated the scale and put it up again.  We moved the scale to another hook.  15.56 every time as pictured.  What's even more surprising is that even though this bike appears to have Zipp 404 tubulars, Sram Red and a carbon frame; the tubulars are the CX clydesdale version, it's not really all Sram Red, nor is the frame the lightest in the Jamis fleet.  It also has a Thomson seatpost, Ultegra cassette & pedals, TruVativ BB, Ritchey WCS alloy stem and EA70 bars.  No excuses now I guess.  Hmm...time to clean that bar tape too.

Getting Dropped Is Not Falling Behind

A bee in the bra is crap sister.  Having a squirrel dive through your spokes or doing a ditch dive is a little higher on the suck-o-meter.  Day-to-day, as far as trying to be a better bike racer, the thing that really haunts the deep inner cycling sanctum of my race brain is getting dropped.  If you road race, I’m sure you feel the same way.  However, I’ve discovered that new riders, more specifically riders new to road racing, aren’t afraid of the drop.  I’m here to say, it may sound barbaric, unsocial and inhumane, but I think new cyclists with intents on road racing need to get popped, dropped, and left sniveling to find their way home with darkness and diving temperatures fast approaching. 

I’ve been racing/riding a long time.  It’s rare to get dropped anymore.  I attribute that to the theory that the incredible side-splitting puking agony of trying to hang onto a fast pack of riders is far better than riding completely bonked solo in the middle of nowhere and using the direction of the setting sun to find your way home.  Getting shot is better than getting burned.

I took one of those rare wicked shellackings Sunday on Cincinnati’s Hyde Park ride.  (9am from Awakenings Coffee Shop if you’re interested)  It was one of those spring training days where mitigating circumstances came into play, a combination of a hilly beatdown the day before, practically eating only meat the night before, 20mph crosswinds and the 6 strongest riders in the city showing up on a 12 person ride.  I got flat backed in the drops, skipped pulls and sucked wheel while drooling and huffing until I finally got waxed and was off the back wheezing like a donkey nearly 2 hours from home on unfamiliar roads.  Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one who popped so I had a companion for the headwind slog back home.  As much as it sucked, I needed that apocalyptic ass whooping to keep motivated, the ego in check and things in perspective. 

Not naming names or frames, I recently rode with someone new to road cycling/racing that has no fear of the drop whatsoever.  Nada.  I’m not sure they even know what getting dropped really is.  New cyclists call it falling behind.  But, getting dropped and falling behind are two different things.  Falling behind assumes that someone will be waiting for you or that you will eventually catch up, the usual etiquette on more social group rides.  Getting dropped is falling behind without a net, the usual etiquette in road racing.  Aside from getting a bee down your jersey and getting dropped, there’s not many things worse. 

It seems cyclists who are just getting into racing aren’t afraid of getting dropped.  It troubled me at first.  When I rode with the new rider/racer, one second they’d be with us, the next moment off the back.  No warning signs like donkey wheezing, a crumpled back, sagging head, dilated pupils, numb left arm, chest grabbing.  They seemingly decided that they didn’t want to go that fast, figuratively threw up their hands and fell behind, like they weren’t afraid of being dropped and expected that they’d catch up somehow or the group would wait.  Completely perplexing to me. 

Cyclists are a kind bunch.  That’s one of the great things about it.  There’s no shortage of vets willing to lend new racers wisdom, tools, a Clif Bar, a lower-back turbo-boost push back to the group or wait at the top of the climb.  However, you can tell newbies all about drafting, pacelines and sitting on, but there’s nothing like the fear of the drop to have it all make perfect sense.  

Mangotmedown and other new CX Cats

USA cycling has done a great job with the new cyclocross categories divided by expertise level and age. However, cross is growing. I heard they’re getting fields of 100 in the Portland area. Already there are single speed CX categories and Clydesdale categories for the big girls and boys. Still, a one time podium level rider can all of a sudden find themselves struggling not to get lapped because of changes with work, family or a new found love of Cheetos. Maybe some adjustment is necessary. To help spread out the ever growing fields and make competition fairer, I’ve come up with a few ideas for new CX sub-categories based rider lifestyle. For example there could be a Cat 3 Ringers race, a Masters 1/2/3 35+ Junkies race or maybe a Cat 3/4 45+ Single Speed Clydesdale Mangotmedown Race.

Junkies:

People with no responsibilities beyond racing bicycles. I don’t know how you managed to make the rest of your life a mere formality, but congratulations to you, (and your left hand) for getting it done. You’re in a class by yourself.

Ringers:

People with athletic careers. Gym teachers, fitness instructors, pole dancers, I’m on to you. You can call it “work” all you want, but I know it’s all a diabolical secret evil training camp that you actually get paid for.

Loafers:

People with barely supervised day jobs. Like George Costanza from Seinfeld you sleep under your desk, waltz out everyday at 11a for a two hour “lunch” ride, roll into work whenever you need to pick up your check, and have the cowbells to send out emails suggesting that others meet you for a five o’clock ride on a weekday. You got it pretty good so just shut up.

Lovahs:

Loafers with relationships. You’ve got the time to train, you just have to be strategic about it and divide your time wisely between your significant other and your true love…your bike.

Snackers:

Gu, Cytomax and Gatorade? What’s wrong with McNuggets tucked in the elastic of your shorts, Coca-cola in the water bottles and ham gravy recovery drinks? Not a damn thing, but you definitely have no business lining up behind someone with Stars and Stripes on their sleeves.

Babymama or Babydaddy:

Lovahs who took it to a whole nutha level and whose training time in minutes is far surpassed by the number of diapers changed this week. Besides, you only got 3 hours of sleep this week; it’s just too dangerous to ride with other people. That’s why we’ll take down the caution tape and get rid of the barriers for your one lap race. We’ll start the race by dropping a bomb, because even a starter’s pistol may not get you to lift your big sleepy head off your handlebars.

Mangotmedown:

You got the lettuce to support your bike fetish, now only if you had the time to eek in your only thirty minute ride this week before your boss calls on your PDA again.