Dub Fat in the Cold

A set back for Team Shad in the lead-up to the Rasputitsa. 

Dubstoevsky, unable to train for various reasons - a trip to Maui, a gout-ridden toe, general weird un-diagnosable body pain, and bitter, Siberia-like weather - has descended into ennui, gluttony, and sloth. This morning he punched the scale at 7.5 lbs above riding weight. Ugly business.

It would be nice to think that last night was the nadir.

Disposing of the evidence

But nothing guarantees that to be so. Each day, each night brings the possibility of reaching one's lowest point. That's called looking on the bright side of gloom. 

DS Mawgs is clearly irritated. 

Last night, after confessing to him the finer points of "Mexican Night" at Chez Dub - heaps of spice-rubbed butter-fried chicken thighs, a small tub of pinto beans, cold Wormtown Be Hoppy IPAs and a few honorary tequila shots (just to "keep it real") - Mawgs fired off this text:

Strength of the bull

"Slag Dub, 157.5 lbs? How are you gonna' ride the Rasputitsa, tubby?
You're the pork butt of jokes in the peloton. Har har, Dub's reaching
into his suitcase of snacks. Again. Damn it, man, show some kind of
impulse control! And NO, you're not serving meat pies tonight!!"

Duly chastened, Dubstoevsky promptly rushed out to an organic food emporium and spent money like the Sultan of Brunei, picking up such staples as German doppelbock beer, Belgian ale, three six packs of local hyper-fresh IPA from Fort Hill Brewery, a rasher of Black Forest bacon, a quartet of chorizo logs, and a few pounds of bull shin bones for braising. "Strength of the bull" he thought.

There's nothing to be done about it now. Restraint is an English word not yet clearly understood by Dubstoevsky, though he's lived in America all his life.  The bone chilling cold is not helping the cause.

DS Mawgs wisely observed that "weather conditions have rendered your fork uncontrollable." This is true.

There is something about single digit temperatures (on the Fahrenheit scale) that begs for braised meat. Haunches, shanks, ribs, an oleaginous sheen of happiness a-shimmering atop the braising broth. The warmth of simmered bones! And the gallant bitter sluice of finely-crafted IPA. This is what amounts to training camp.