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. 

Maui to Now

From this.

Northwest Maui, February 6, 2017

To this.

Holden Reservoir, February 25, 2017

If it can be said that the "season" has started for me, it's because from January 30 to February 20 I was off the bike. In fact, I spent ten days of that time on Maui and despite turbulent, unpredictable weather there, managed to immerse myself in, and give myself over to, the Pacific Ocean several times, joyously so. 

So, because I rode pretty much continuously right up to the end of January and then didn't ride for the next three weeks, and because for some of that time I was literally far far away, and finally because I was discernibly off form on the first couple rides after the lay off, it seems to me that a seasonal swing has occurred, that I am not on ride #100 and something of the season but am on ride #12 of the new year, 2017. 

And a new year for Team Shad means, of course, the Rasputitsa, now just six weeks or so away. 

My immediate focus is building stamina and maintaining power over longer and longer rides. The Rasp is 45 or so miles, not a threatening distance on the face of it, but when you throw in the crazy elevations and the nasty conditions, you have a very difficult day in the saddle. I'm aiming to be fit enough to match the demands of the course and will rely on meditation, savvy, pacing, and Dubstoevskian stubbornness. 

Maui, February 6, 2017

Seizing Opportunities

January is always hit or miss. It can roar or whimper, pee or squall. The roads can be wet or icy, sandy, sloppy, or bone dry and stained white with salt. Or all of them in a single ride. As they were today.

While Wing Nut is banging out 50 mile rides in the hills of western Mass, Dubstoevsky is pecking away at crumbs and possibilities. 11 miles here. 40 miles there. 18 miles today in the absolute gloaming. Seizing every opportunity, foolhardy though some might be. 

January 19, 2017

Tuesday is a perfect example. Fully-suited up and ready to pedal, I noticed the a pattern of droplets on the pavement. The imminence of rain. I asked myself "What would Wing Nut do?" 

The answer was obvious - set out and hope for the best - so that's what I did. The best proved to be ice pellets instead of rain. At least I was not wet or uncomfortable. The pellets hit my outer layer and bounced off. They stung my face like little biting ants. Though the roads were completely soaked by the time I got back, for most of the ride they were just in the "dampening" stage. I got lucky, perhaps I conjured the beneficence of WingNutKarma.

Today it was overcast and ashy when I left after 3:00 and it got steadily darker as I went on. By the end of the ride, all the cars' headlights were on and I was grateful for my strobic-blinking headlamp and the schizophrenic blinking red taillight. I got back at 4:50. It's still January, for fuck's sake. Stupidly dark. Both Tuesday's and today's rides were in the "foolhardy" category. 

Also in the "hard man of the peloton" category. 

Ah well. After today, I've got 6 rides in 2017, 117 miles over full-on winter roads. 

Every January ride is a pint paid for by a stranger. 

Clear and Cold

Holden Reservoir
January 14, 2016

Saturday, January 14, 2017 was the 50th anniversary of the Human Be-In. I rode. 29 degrees, overcast crept in by the afternoon, a wan gray overlay fifty years after that cornerstone cultural event. That was the beginning and the end of what was possible. 

All these years later, a refugee from the Soviet Union, a hard man of the proletariat, a skull-thumped survivor at large in America, the bicycle is my pedestal and soapbox. I claw my way forward, eating up the hills of Woo County, grinding out dogged winter miles, telling myself that the Rasputitsa is nothing, is a lark's pedal, a puff of bluster in a long train of savagery.   

Monday, January 16. I bow to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., prophet and peacemaker, visionary, martyr for justice. OM AH HUM. 

The day is bright, sharp, clear, above freezing. Perfect. Don all the garb necessary for a comfortable ramble. And a fine ramble it is, 40 miles across the free New England landscape. Is Massachusetts the best state in the union? Some would argue. But I would not. 

This is where we ride

Emulating Balzac

Onward. 

First ride on the year, first ride on the Crux since the D2R2 (I didn't even test ride it after getting in back with a new derailleur last August). First training ride for the Rasputitsa, 112 days from today.

William St, New Years Day 2017

Hall St, New Years Day 2017

They say that if Balzac finished writing a novel before lunch, he would, immediately after lunch, start his next one. 

So it goes for Dubstoevsky. No time for slacking, for taking it easy. Serious training, arduous training, relentless training getting underway. The bike, for a while, becomes a secondary focus. After three years of determined cycling, the body, while sinewy and strong in the muscle gruppetto, has lost significant strength and muscle elsewhere. Everywhere else. 

That sad state to be addressed. Core training. A strengthening regimen designed and overseen by DS Mawgs, the Huron fitness guru who has taken a personal interest in Dubstoevsky's resurrection. Barbell step-ups. The Kettlebell Swing. Rowing machines. Weighted sleds. Truck tires. 

It's the first day of the new year. Time to start the next novel.

Woo City Style, January 1, 2017

January 1, 2017

Bancroft TowerJanuary 1, 2017

It's a Wrap

The vanishing year

2016. Done. Finished. Weirdness. Success and disappointment. The abandoned Tour de Heifer. The D2R2 mechanical on East RD. Team Shad reduced to two stalwarts, Wing Nut and Dubstoevsky. But the Rasputitsa, if not a triumph, definitely a success. A strong showing for the team. 

Dubstoevsky? An injury-free season. A personal best mileage count. Strong outings at the Rasputitsa and at the D2R2, until the mechanical. 

Stats 2016

118 rides
3,116.1 miles
165,679 feet elevation gain
233 hours 51 minutes pedaling

Those stats indicate a worthy effort, as one would expect of the team leader. Not even a contract year, just another year of dogged perseverance, of joyous embrace the rounding wheel, of conviction.

Crows on Cedar St
December 27, 2016

Bancroft Tower 12.27.16

The Return of the Light

Take heart in the fact that it is no longer the shortest day of the year, but the second shortest. And every day now until June grows lighter. 

But much as we want more and more light, there is something inescapably superior about winter light, more beautiful than the other three seasons, especially just before and after dawn, and late in the afternoon as the sun dips below the frozen hills and fills the western sky with wan peach smears and gray cloud boas the colors of hearth ash and washed out apricot.

Or just after 3:00 setting out for a spirited reservoir romp, passing St Spyridon Church, old Greek Acropolis cloud sky embracing the be-crossed dome in the muted sun glare. 

December 4, 2016

On these rides, you have to be extra careful, you have to be aware of your surroundings at all time, as aware as an owl or a mountain lion, you have to take note of every road detail and never let your attention waver. A frozen road surface, an icy gutter sludge, a patch of sand, they could all take you down in a Zen breath. 

So today is the second darkest day of 2016 and I'm filled with light, and trying to be light on my bike, and light in my awareness, and light in the universe, an airy soul speeding along on rubber tubes of air. To the reservoir! 

December 22, 2016

And so 17 miles unexpectedly, a Thursday afternoon late in December, like finding a ten dollar bill on the sidewalk. All the miles between now and spring training are gravy, the low fat version. Every pedaled mile counts as a gold star. 

A Note on Team Shad

Not for the first time did I ponder the odd circumstance that finds Team Shad training on the road roughly 90% of the time, yet the only organized events on the team's race schedule year in and year out are gravel road affairs (Rasputitsa, D2R2, Tour de Heifer). What's up with that? wondered Dubstoevsky near the end of the year. Who is running this team, anyway?