My brother is a real live published poet. He's won international writing competitions, and he's been flown to Australia to receive awards. He's got a book deal. He is this battered cyclist's conduit to Homer's nous, to the realm of the intellect.
He recently emailed me a haiku. Someone had sent it to him, and he thought of me:
Haikus are easy But sometimes they don't make sense Refrigerator
Of course he thought of me! It's only the best haiku ever!
I shared it with my BFF, who responded in kind:
I am writing you tainted beef recall haiku veggie up suckas
(he followed that with aNew York Times editorial, "The Biggest Beef Recall Ever")
Okiedoke. Glad that "being mental" stuff is out of the way. Time to hit the gym!
Finally got my pedals off my bike (with the help of a bike mechanic, his rubber mallet, and some tenacity). Those suckers were tight.
Here I am (far left, holding rented track bike) with Mel and Annabell. Mel's my riding partner, and Annabell (far right) is a fantastic track racer and clinic instructor who sold me her Team Oakland race kit (the one I'm wearing in the photo) for $30 and a $5 Starbucks gift card (she'd moved to the South Bay and joined a closer team). Very nice of her.And here I am below (blue jacket), during the track clinic (this particular lesson appears to be covering how to stick out your boobs):I was surprised to note that the track bike actually fit me well; for a rental, it felt comfortable (except that like all track bikes, it was a single speed with no brakes, which I found tres emotionally uncomfortable, especially riding in pacelines, on this weird slope thing). Not like at the Oakland Ice Center, where the rental skates' blades are so dull that it's like wearing tennis shoes on the ice (no grab - very dangerous BTW, and you can forget about practicing your triple lutz, although it's great training for broomball). The saddle did move from side to side like it was going to almost fall off a couple times though, despite my most diligent attempts to tighten it. That was pretty disconcerting while reaching for brakes that didn't exist. Eventually I did get used to moving up the slope toward the rail to slow down, and the track became a little less scary and even got a little bit fun.
While getting my stuff ready for Sunday's 60 mile ride (I'd spent an hour trying to screw the right pedal into the left crank arm, remembering about the reverse threading, but forgetting to look for the "L" on the pedal, and very nearly stripping the threads entirely) to Danville Peets via Tunnel/Pinehurst/St. Mary's, I realized that I'd forgotten/left my cycling shoes (and shoe covers, for warmth) at the track (an hour away). And it wasn't like I didn't have plenty of time to remember them while Mel's dead battery was getting a jump in the parking lot (Mel's boyfriend Sean, who'd taken the above photos -- thanks Sean! -- had accidentally left the lights on when we'd parked). But fortunately Sean was going back to the track the next day for some sprinting drills (sprinting at the track is his thing - he pukes over the rail a lot, which I admire; I simply lack the discipline to push it to the puking point on a regular basis). So while Mel and Paul and I were finishing our really fun ride (I'd made do with my spin shoes and toe covers -- they only cover half the shoe, but it wasn't that cold), Sean was bringing my shoes to me! I rode home with them in my back pockets (the cycling attire "back pocket" is an amazing thing, especially if you're wearing Sugoi, in my opinion).
OK, so Sunday was fabulous (despite the fact that a certain individual had invited me to join her for Sunday's Pine Flat race, totally out of the blue, by which I was flattered to the nth degree, and subsequently completely devastated when she totally flaked on me; flaking is really mean and she is no longer my hero, and I'm sure this all stems from the fact that I articulated a purely aesthetic preference against tattoos, and I only went into detail because I felt backed into a corner, and why the hell do I have to like someone's tattoos? Was I consulted on this art project? Is beauty not completely subjective? Can't the person who got the tattoo like it enough for both of us? And what the f*ck kind of question is "why don't you want/have a tattoo?")
Sunday was made more fabulous by an evening out at a microbrewery called 21st Amendment, with a guy called Scott, drinking a beer called Golden Doom, during a month called "Strong Beer Month". It had over 8% alcohol, and the waitress gigglingly stamped my "strong beer month" card several times at my request, even though I'd only had one beer (if you fill the card by trying all the strong beers by the end of the month, you get a commemorative glass).
I BARTed back into the city in the early morning Monday (work holiday), to meet up with Mel and Sean. We rode over the Golden Gate bridge to Sausalito, to catch the start of the Tour of California, a pro road race (last year's Tour de France's first and third place finishers were there, and in fact the third place guy is a local). It was really cool. Then we headed out to Nicasio and Pt. Reyes Station for my second Marin ride ever, and a total of 90 miles for the day! I was freezing almost the entire time, so I was hammering to raise my core body temperature. Mel bonked. One of the most flattering moments of Cycling Me history to date!
Tonight I burned 1,158 calories in 1.5 hours of spin. That's a new record for Cycling Me. When I started spinning in March/April of 2006, I could burn 1,300 calories on a good day, but as I got conditioned to spinning, and then started riding outside, the numbers started dwindling. Now I'm lucky to break 1,000. I knew it was going to be a good one today though, because MarkTheSpinInstructor's music was awesome, and I was maintaining a heart rate of 170. That's over 92% of my HR max, and, according to my lactate threshold test results is one beat above my climbing anaerobic threshold (AT2) range, which itself is higher than flat anaerobic threshold (AT1) due to greater muscle recruitment. I must have hella free radicals in my body right now.
Fortunately, I'd pre-prepared and packed (with ice) a chocolate milk so that I could have it within 30 minutes of the class; it came in quite handy, and I'm tres impressed with myself, especially since it enabled me to take advantage of the legal diet loophole that allows me to consume traditional chocolate milk (i.e. that which contains refined sugar) as a post-workout recovery drink only, and at no other time. I am a Chocolate Milk Strategist.
About the diet: My mom's a certifiable certified diabetes educator, so I know a bit about food and diets. Here's an example of mom recounting a conversation with a newly-diagnosed diabetic patient at the office:
Mom: So tell me what you eat every day. Patient: Not much. A piece of toast in the morning. A banana. Mom: Well that's obviously not all you eat. You're fat.
Well you can't expect a diabetes nurse to sugar coat things. And I've gotten off track. The point is: I know it's of very little consequence whether something is sweetened by refined sugar, brown sugar, unrefined brown sugar, honey, or maple syrup. It's all 15 calories per teaspoon, and the reality is that it all makes you fat. However...it's a great way of limiting consumption. Instead of coke, I'll drink diet cancer in a can. Instead of eating the freshly baked banana bread that Harriet brought into work yesterday, I'll crankily eat my stupid f*cking salad. Instead of drinking 4 chocolate milks a day, I'll strategically consume one, at a time when it is most likely to be optimally metabolized and not stick to my fat ass. So this just might work. I'm a little concerned about the baby shower I'm throwing for Marla, though. Chocolate has been established as a major theme on the Evite. Ah well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
It started off poorly. I couldn't get my dumb pedals off my dumb bike on Friday night, even with my nifty new pedal wrench. And I needed them to head down to a track clinic super early the next morning at the Hellyer Velodrome (you can rent a track bike, but it's BYOP). And of course I waited until the last minute, after all the bike shops had closed. On top of that I was feeling particularly flu-ish (I'd gotten sick again that week! Second time this season!). And I was supposed to give Carol a ride. And then Mel called: "Where are you guys?!" Ugh.
I just chilled out on Saturday, had a nice nap, did some very light lifting at the gym, basked in the absolutely beautiful day, and then headed to the laundramat so I could do my 3 loads of laundry all at once. I saw the bike shop guy there! When I expressed my pedal frustration, he got all excited that I was going to try the track (his discipline!), and he told me to just bring my bike in and he'd have my pedals off in a jiffy. Hopefully he can show me how to do it myself, because I can't have an un-road-ride-able road bike! GOSH!
Then I had sushi with Marlic and Scott. Scott says it's "strong beer month" at 21st Amendment and Magnolia (2 microbreweries) in the city! I love it! He's agreed to go back with me next weekend so I can check it out. Thanks Scott! And Eric lent me a jump drive with a couple albums on it, because I was complaining about my old/stale music collection. So now I have the latest Spoon album (can we still say "album"?) on my ipod, and some Iron & Wine. Thanks Eric!
This morning, I did the Touchstone Runners group run in the Berkeley hills. I haven't been running lately, and my calves were hating me for the first 30 minutes (all uphill to Tilden park), but it eventually leveled off/went downhill for the second half of the run. It was beautiful, and the company was great. AND, we saw Markham as he passed us on his bike, and then we saw Fred and Becky as they rode by on their bikes! Wendy yelled at them to join us for breakfast (eggs/homefries) after our run, so they went home, showered, and showed up with just-baked scones that Becky had just thrown together! The best part? They contained maple syrup instead of refined sugar. Hah! And they were phenomenal (must've been the five sticks of butter).
I don't know how it happened. The conversation started innocently enough over gumbo. I had a coke in my hand at the beginning, but by the night's end, I was drinking diet coke.
I hate diet soda. It makes me thirsty. Of this I was reminded.
Pat and I decided we would be a lot faster on our bikes if we were 15 lbs lighter, 2 months from now. She's going to stop having margaritas every night, and I'm going to stop consuming refined sugar (my main dietary vice), except during very strenuous exercise (to prevent bonking), and possibly up to 30 minutes following (like a post-workout recovery chocolate milk), and maybe also when my moon is in Venus. We're going to check in weekly on our progress. It'll be an interesting experiment (kinda like the time I turned into a never-sated fat vegetarian one year - I fell off the wagon on Thanksgiving).
Technically, ketchup is in the "don't" column. Oh god. I found some refined-sugar-free tahini cookies at Arizmendi though, so things aren't looking totally hopeless.
OK, moving on to livestock. I'm helping my BFF find an apartment in the East Bay. One of my favorite things, like, EVAR, is to search for East Bay apartments on Craigslist. I'm really good at it. I can help you too. It's a gift.
Here's one I found today. I had to send it to BFF because it made me laugh:
$1400 north berkeley 1 bedroom cottage COMING SOON (berkeley north / hills)
One bedroom apartment in beautiful area of North Berkeley Near gourmet ghetto, shop, transportation, Free standing unit, not attached to any other unit Quite private Ideal for students, couples One year lease Beautiful chickens in property- you should like chickens Available March 1st No pets, no exception please do not ask No smoking please Drop me a line
To me it reads "If you don't like chickens..well...you really should."
My BFF emailed this to me today, sans explanation:Originally, I'd interpreted the illustration as a graphical representation of BFF's dating philosophy, because it followed a conversation about a guy from cyberspace who'd expressed interest in me (and with whom I was keen on finding fault). The last time we'd had a similar conversation, BFF told me to keep my eye on the bagel, not on the hole.
But I've been informed that I'd misunderstood (I had to totally re-write this post! I was being too hard on the guy in cyberspace anyway. 6'2"/190 lbs is not necessarily ectomorphic.), and that the diagram was in fact a direct response to my "Elmo Doesn't Know" (a video making its way around YouTube right now) reaction. BFF had enjoyed the video, and he'd sent me the link.
My reaction was, "cut the chick out of the background". Apparently that was the wrong reaction, but she looks totally bored:
I'm not ignoring you; I just don't get text messages. I'm a little bit clumsy, but I could kick your ass at foosball. I love the smell of laundry. My Geiger counter impression is uncanny. I don't eat liver or cannolis, and while I'm a huge fan of chocolate, I hate those solid bars of homemade fudge. Coleslaw sometimes tastes like elephants. Favorite utensil: Spork. Proponent: Stream of Consciousness literary technique.
And here I am below (blue jacket), during the track clinic (this particular lesson appears to be covering how to stick out your boobs):
I was surprised to note that the track bike actually fit me well; for a rental, it felt comfortable (except that like all track bikes, it was a single speed with no brakes, which I found tres emotionally uncomfortable, especially riding in pacelines, on this weird slope thing). Not like at the Oakland Ice Center, where the rental skates' blades are so dull that it's like wearing tennis shoes on the ice (no grab - very dangerous BTW, and you can forget about practicing your triple lutz, although it's great training for broomball). The saddle did move from side to side like it was going to almost fall off a couple times though, despite my most diligent attempts to tighten it. That was pretty disconcerting while reaching for brakes that didn't exist. Eventually I did get used to moving up the slope toward the rail to slow down, and the track became a little less scary and even got a little bit fun.
Originally, I'd interpreted the illustration as a graphical representation of BFF's dating philosophy, because it followed a conversation about a guy from cyberspace who'd expressed interest in me (and with whom I was keen on finding fault). The last time we'd had a similar conversation, BFF told me to keep my eye on the bagel, not on the hole.
