it's the icing on the cake

directions: make sure that you are alone-- all house guests, children, domestic partners and/or pets who may be in heat should be on the other side of a locked door. note; you might feel dirtier doing this by yourself, but that's your own non-secular stuff and far too weighty to fit on a packaging label. squeeze yourself a massive amount of "butt'r"-- the same thinking that also uses half a roll of toilet paper to fashion a protective poo shield between your fingers and what you really don't want to touch. do this next part quickly, you are not trying to ration out the miserly serving of cream cheese that franchised coffee shops give you to cover a bagel. what you defer in technique can always be adequately covered by volume. remember; it's a teriyaki marinade going on in your chamois, and the only thing worse than dried out chicken is a dessicated hoo-ha.

will ride for gummy bears, not patrick dempsey

the loo is a grossly underrated spot for the kind of multi-tasking that involves drinking coffee, putting in contact lenses, doing the hair, flossing, and wriggling (at least ankle way) into a pair of bike shorts at 6:52 in the morning.

i even got to check facebook.



dr. mcdreamy returned to maine for more chamois and cancer awareness by bringing together a community full of fundraising taints willing to endure 15, 25, 50 or a 100 miles of chafing amongst the foliage. however, what seemed like an absolutely splendid- because it was mostly remote- idea in january fizzled into not a whole lot of pledge solicitation or saddle time come august and september. fortunately there was zero tolerance amongst our team for dropping down to the 25- let alone dropping out- for fear of being left out. one personal cheque later, and i was attaching a $200 bib number on with a nappy pin at 7am.

(i ate about $1.75 worth of high priced, high fructose corn syrup at the SAG stops).

how many women should it take to change a bike tyre?

in an effort to be a little more self-sufficient than wailing: "it hurts/i'm not strong enough/oh my god, look how much grease i am now covered in?" i signed up for a women's bike maintenance clinic.

it turns out that it really is easier to get someone else who fits the gender role of 'person on white horse/frame, in a suit of armour/spandex' to do anything pertaining to calipers, cranks and carbon fibre.

like most academics with advanced degrees, i already know how to change a tube, it's just that i'm not actually very good at it- and by "good", i mean efficient (by which i mean "fast"). and by that, i mean after about 45 minutes i emerge coated in a sheen of black grease, entering the first phase of carpal tunnel syndrome, clutching an underinflated tyre.

really, i was hoping to learn a short cut, but apparently, like everything else in cardiovascular life, to get better means doing it more- fortunately, this will not be a problem i run or ride into. and so the evening proceeded, interspersed with many four letter words, and the constant refrain "this is so much easier to do on a mountain bike".

perhaps the best, and most defining part of having a group of women gathering together in order to learn and then practice things is that anything applied- or physically difficult- means unconditional, judgement-free and most importantly "group" effort.

followed by an endless supply of hors d'oeuvres and wine.

dehydration during exercise can actually increase performance

clearly, there is some egghead over at NASA who needs to get cracking on the prototype for a pair of athletic incontinence underpants. nike, patagonia, under armour et al. are all ripping holes in our wallets so that we can be suitably kitted out to perform various x-treme and/or athletic pursuits in matching and wicking caps/shirts/shorts/socks.

for a mere $29.99 (plus tax and shipping), skymall will deliver a fruit dehyrdrator to your front door. it is therefore, not inconceivable that many from the swim-bike-run community would be happy to part with their cash, so that they can have moisture wicked away from all the wet and dank creases, while engaging in several hours of uninterrupted activity. savings would be more than made up for in a PR, and none of that pesky pre-race anxiety at the port-a-loos. athletes could drink that third cup of coffee and just head straight out the door, assured in the knowledge that they will not have to look for a dodgy public toilet, or a large copse of trees on sunday's long training day. by the time the swim/bike/run is complete, all that will be left to empty out of your shorts is a hard, dry pebble. 100% chafe-free.

it's not about the journey

patrick dempsey is maine's own homeboy and therefore the primary reason i was unable to listen to my limp excuses sunday morning when faced with the prospect of 50 miles; dans le saddle; in a torrential downpour; over "puke hill". that, and an enormous registration fee long since withdrawn from the checking account. fortunately, positive reinforcement abounded at 7:15am, when dave zabriskie and i made 'protracted-eye-contact-but-not-in-a-creepy-stalking-kind-of-way (not to me anyway)' as he disembarked the stage with his peloton of "muscle". george hincapie was also kind enough to bend over for a paparazzi money shot.



and so 3,500 fairly unco-ordinated spandex/cotton blend clad people and their bicycles (and possibly 23 kickstands), avoided a concrete and carbon snarl between 8:15 and 8:19 as we all set off from the corral into the drizzly mists so as to enjoy some unripe "foliage", gatorade and gummi bears. lots of gummi bears. at miles 17, 28, and 39-ish. the mantra for the day was "soggy saddle sore is better than turbulence or sharing stirrups and a paper sheet with bill o'reilly". and aside from the obvious pain, discomfort and millilitres of mucous absorbed into the thumb of my right bike glove, there were some entertaining moments to briefly interrupt the whining. maybe only two; the "wheel housewives of cumberland county" rode by in their team kits, and the dulcet caterwauling of my one eared friend, cheering and photographing this "faster than shutter speed" grumpy, calloused crotch 200 metres from the finish line.



things started to perk up when i saw that the "apres feed" included baked lobster, globs of salty butter and a small serving of McDessert.

lobster, lighthouses, lactate thresholds, and a rather lacklustre attitude

after spending 7 plus hours confined to a delta airlines economy class seat, a jet lag haze eclipsed the reality of how this would impact the integrity of my hip flexors for the (locally) ubiquitous 50 mile 'lobster ride and roll' a day later. scenic views, a caloric deficit, and white bread stuffed with sweet crustacean claws were my sparkly, shiny object.



a zen like state was finally achieved when peanut m&ms provided a blissful trance from the fugue that had settled in by mile 25.



i can obviously blame transatlantic travel for a less than stellar performance at the 'lobster'. and ever the planner, my crappy effort during the 'dempsey bike challenge' at the beginning of october will be attributed to an intensive marathon training schedule leading up to it. this will also go towards explaining an equally geriatric endeavour at the marine corps marathon (at the end of october), because i knackered out my legs on the very hill bike course 3 weeks prior.

'making excuses intervals' is the only area of cross training where i am currently exceeding expectations.

i'm not wearing any underwear

"well, i'm wearing my granny panties under my bike shorts" was the response from my left, as we resumed watching the backside of the guy in front of us, who's only 'visible lines' were of his chiseled sinews through the spandex.

i went commando for the first time tonight (this didn't work out so well for the integrity of my bunk bed mattress the last time i tried it) during our group road ride, which was probably the only faux pas not committed during the 20 mile excursion through cow pastures and taxidermists.

despite ocd more pervasive than the latest robert ludlum at the border's express in jfk's terminal 2, the donning of the undies is more about not wanting to expend time scraping and chipping the crusty bits out of my chamois- girl's shorts look like a scalextric race track on the inside, that's a lot of grooves for gunk to get stuck in.

and while mr 'visible sinew line' can get away with sponsorship text across his arse, those of us, who are more glutealy endowed, should just stick with plain matte black, maybe even a bin bag.

coming soon to an REI near you, a new line of women's cycling shorts with "ride my ass" stamped across the buttocks.

committed to underachieving *

learning how to play bohemian rhapsody on the cello and singing the lyrics in mandarin seems rather a silly idea when you can just sit on the couch for 9 hours and read the complete works of bill bryson.

as such, i found myself pedaling with the 'bunco' group on wednesday night's road ride, quite comfortable in the diverse ecto/endo/meso demographic. not one to strive for excellence, it was reassurance enough to see an abundance of cotton athletic wear, bike helmets that belonged in "free styrofoam cooler with a 12 pack of bud light", in the beer cave at the local petrol station-- and even a kick stand or two.

not unlike my performance on tuesday night 'cardio crack at the track', i am more comfortable hanging back with my new buddy "kickstand", dodging potholes (road cellulite being more hazardous to the long term appearance of skin than a gallon of haagen dazs), and not overtaxing the pulmonary artery, it's associated ventricles, or the city to finance an ambulance plus crew.

predictably (in much the same way, that drawing and labeling the different types of triangles in lower level maths class finally had me gagging for sines and cosines the next group up), i started drifting ahead towards the next set of pedaling bottoms. this in itself presents a new learning moment as i appeared to miss the "i'm going to move to the left, so now you ride up front and shield me from the bugs/take a pull" cue.

i have officially upgraded from 'bunco' to 'canasta'.



* "sandbagger"** being the more technical term.

** given the presence of spandex, ergo "saddlebagger".

fat is better than skinny

very few women will admit to preferring fat and dimply over smooth and skinny. fat is less intimidating. fat is safe. fat is solid and protects. i have a "thing" for fat.

i have ridden a mountain bike off and on since i was 19. however, in my compulsive efforts to keep my own thighs from becoming too "knobby", i recently acquired a road bike. aka the manifestation of anorexia in two wheels. it defies reason how those skinny things can maintain a continuous vertical, or absorb pebbles, ruts, and mangled squirrels in the road. i am completely intimidated by it's emaciated silhouette.

exercising my (female) god given right to live the contradiction, i feel safer riding a trail over the road, but i would choose running on the road, over a trail. and while the thought of wrapping myself and bike around a stationary tree covered in fiery spears, or endo-ing into a field of poison ivy is mildly unpleasant, it is preferrable to the prospect of simply twisting my size 5 brook's, under a tree root (no amount of calamine takes away the sprain). and i would far rather pick gravel out of grazed knees than the less appealing prospect of collecting aforementioned fat limbs and skinny tyres from the windscreen of a redneck's ford tundra/silverado/ram.

i am an oxymoron; fat and happy.

i don't do commando

"i always wear knickers under my bike shorts".

[blank stare]

"i'm a girl..."

[as above]

"we have smegma."

[door slamming closed/crickets chirping]

the x- chromosome argument is strongly supported by the fact that wearing undies provides an extra layer (really, it's a barrier).

~ it's better for the environment to recycle.
~ bike shorts are expensive.
~ regular chamois funk is already bad enough
~ who has time to do laundry that many times in one week?

go ahead: ask your girlfriend/friend/friend's girlfriend/co-worker. two out of every three women are sporting a VPL (visible panty line) out there on the trails.

smurfette and rainbow brite do the duathalon

whose bloody idea was it, to do this bloody race, at the bloody sparrow's fart, on a bloody chilly sunday morning? oh yeah. mine. no one should be awake at 5am (still dark) on a weekend morning unless it's to empty their bladder (which i actually did several times, but did not get the pleasure of stumbling back to bed).

"smurfette" and "rainbow brite" were respectively christened by our bottle bunny/driver/light entertainment/cheerleader, due to the colours of our jersey's- although it was probably more reflective of the blue circles under my eyes. i was responsible for the 5k run before and after RB's 30k bike ride. i just re-realized that while i enjoy running a steady 10k, i do not enjoy running a fast 5k; twice. i was not designed for speed; short, stubby legs, and short, stubby lungs do not respond well to a series of 9 minute miles. fortunately the competition covered the spectrum, from "shirtless guy" in a TT helmet who blazed us all on 2 feet and 2 wheels, to the "mall girls" in matching tie dye, riding pink magna's (with kick stands) and no bike helmets (tsk! tsk!). the runner versus cyclist change over, turned out to be a great ego equalizer for those of us (that would be me) who were getting a bit smug out there trotting past them, only to watch the slower pokes spin back in, and have a comfortable head start on the final 5k.

aside from the obvious, one of the bigger lessons i came away with from today, is that there is a universal rule that applies to rickety bridges over cliffs, tall buildings, and port-a-loos; "don't look down".