Sunday morning, I rolled out at 7:01 AM en route to a fantastic adventure.
It was a cool morning -- cool enough that I was glad I'd opted for my semi-famous FHPs, a long-sleeved jersey, and a jacket; cool enough that I wished I'd been organized enough to locate the full-fingered gloves that I'd pulled out of my backpack and (as I later discovered) stuffed into the couch beside one of the seat-cushions (Aside: Can anyone explain this madness? I am not generally in the habit of stuffing things into the couch. Maybe it was the cat.) -- but it was a lovely morning. Traffic was light, and I sailed along, stuck in the big ring (still) for just over forty minutes. With butterflies in my stomach, though once I hit my rhythm, I mostly forgot about them.
The truth is, I am terribly nervous about meeting other cyclists. Having been 'the weird kid' in every single year of school, I'm mostly good at holding my own against the irrational judgments of others, but somehow I crave the respect of my fellow wheelmen and -women ... at least, those I respect. Plus, one of my personal heroes was likely to show for this ride (ZOMG!), though I somehow managed to put that from my mind and thus not act like a ridiculous little squirrel.
It turned out, however, that the guys I would be riding with were what one might call 'just folks' -- really nice people with bikes in their blood and bones (maybe 'just spokes' would be a better moniker?). Ward, the first to arrive after I pulled in, happened to have a tool I'd left behind, which allowed me to tighten my stem so my handlebars wouldn't rotate (which they had done, terrifyingly, on the way over -- a startling moment which would cause me to descend roughly as fast as a lazy snail for the duration of the ride).
While we waited for our brethren, I fiddled with my front derailleur, finally coaxing it onto the small ring. I would be glad of this later -- our ride-leader for the day, Tim, sniffed out a pretty hilly route. Even in the small ring, I was pretty winded at the top of two of the climbs. In the big ring, I would've been cooked by mile 20 -- well-done, in fact, given that my big ring is a 53 and my cluster ranges 12-23. (As it was, I thought the 39x12-23 range worked pretty well for this ride.)
Soon our fellows arrived. It was edifying to see such an array of beautiful bikes, among them Patrick's gorgeous A. Homer Hilsen with its double top tube and Tim's beautiful, brand-spanking new steed from Independent Fabrications (speaking of which: dear relatives, if you happen to have an extra $5,500 lying around and can't think of a way to spend it, a Corvid would make a really awesome wedding present next May ;D). I would've been happy to have any one of them in my personal stable (though I would, of course, need a smaller Hilsen!).
We headed out right around 8:00, rolling up Breckenridge Lane a bit, then hanging a right. There was no predetermined route map for this ride; there were no cue sheets. We were following Tim's nose, and -- as it turns out -- he has a good one. Our path led through the lovely, curving climbs of such venues as Glenview Hills, Glenview, Riverwood, and Indian Hills. The wooded roads were quiet; the climbs were delightful, the descents ... well, beautiful and terrifying, but only because I was constantly worried about my bars randomly rotating. (It would appear that I have become a bit paranoid.)
At one point, a brace of whitetail does exploded across our path, resulting in jubilant shouts of 'Deer up!' and 'Oh, deer!' Later, a hawk (probably a redtail, based on its build and flight profile, but I didn't get a great look) sailed over us. Fortunately, she decided we did not look edible :)
Dave was riding his Bacchetta, and it was thrilling to hear the recumbent which had a few moments before been toodling its way up the climbs come roaring down the other side. First, you would hear a sound like a train; then you'd glance over your shoulder, and there was Dave descending like a madman, or a falcon, in the drizzly rain, and then...
Swoooooosh!
...He was past you, and then he was past the rest of the guys, who were themselves sailing around a beautiful little switchback in a sort of relaxed paceline, or searing their way down a straight descent in a pack.
Suffice it to say that Sunday was one of those 'why I ride' kind of days. It was reminiscent, in a way, of the long, rambling rides I used to take with a couple of my friends as a kid -- quiet, hilly roads, no real plan, just riders and bikes. The major difference? The bikes were generally nicer, and this ride was faster :)
I don't think I've had quite this much fun on a bike since ... well, possibly, quite possibly, ever. I mostly ride solo, both at work and at play, and I enjoy it -- but there's nothing quite like a good group ride to keep you rolling.
When you're riding for fun with a good group, it's easy to forget you're climbing, and to stop obsessing about cadence and pedal stroke and intervals and all that fiddly stuff that sometimes makes you want to pull your hair out on a training ride (and people wonder why I always wear a helmet :D). Talking, I'm convinced keeps the oxygen flowing in and out with aplomb.
We wound our way up Clifton Ave (a road I was once afraid to even try to climb!), sailed along part of one of my favorite weekend rides from my William Street days, and turned onto Bardstown Road. Soon, we were sailing in to a stop at Quills Coffee. It was a little after 10:00, and we were ready for some refreshment. Coffee, savory scones, a cookie, and an espresso drink almost too beautiful to touch were consumed with relish amidst a conversation that rarely veered far from the thing that had brought us all together: bikes, and riding bikes.
Soon, we were headed back out into the drizzly morning.
Dave was gracious enough to let me try his Bacchetta (shh! Don't tell my co-workers!), which I rode for a few blocks and enjoyed immensely (note to self: disc brakes are, in fact, pretty awesome -- much better at stopping in the rain than QS's road calipers -- I fear I may find myself riding a 'cross brake with discs, some time soon). We turned onto Cherokee and found our way into the park, where we sailed down the sweeping descent-side of Baringer Hill. I then got so engrossed in talking to Dave about 'bents that I pretty much failed to notice the next climb 'til he peeled off with an, "I'm dropping back..." We'd reached the steepish little bit at the top, and the Bacchetta had lost its momentum, so I muscled up to the fountain alone and found -- to my surprise -- that I wasn't even winded. This is what happens when you forget about yourself and get out of your own way!
In a moment we were descending again, then winding through the little valley along Beargrass Creek -- and then, much too soon, it was time for me to peel off and head for church. My route took me up Millvale Road, then onto Woodbourne Ave, where Saint Andrew's Episcopal makes its home. The rest of the guys headed onward to, as Tim puts it in his ride report on the RCCS blog, 'Saint Matthew's and beyond.'
My first RCCS ride is definitely among my top-ten cycling experiences so far. Dave, Patrick, Tim, and Ward make great ride partners.
I'll be keeping an eye on the RCCS blog in hopes of another go some time soon ... and maybe next time it'll occur to me to take more than one picture!
P.S. — I am happy to report that the fix for the bar-rotation problem seems to have done the trick. That being said, I plan to devote the next week to re-learning how to trust my bike!
P.P.S — I forgot to mention: as far as I know, at no point did a race break out on this ride.
P.P.P.S — while I was out riding Quicksilver, Hg grew a set of bars. Also a shiny purple-anodized rear brake caliper. Woot!
Showing posts with label farking hipster pants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label farking hipster pants. Show all posts
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, November 07, 2010
In Which Your Humble Blogger Gets the Munchies
So.
I seem to have acquired a nasty cold.
'Nasty' in the sense that it is painful and unpleasant (and is causing my head to leak quantities of goo so copious that I am forced to wonder whence cometh all the raw materials). Nasty also in the sense that it came out of nowhere — yesterday, I woke up with a sore throat. By evening, I was hacking up a lung, though initially I blamed the 20-mph-uphill-through-woodsmoke ride I took on my way home from the store (where I bought more FHPs, God help me). Nasty also because it prevented me from singing Brahms' 'Let Nothing Ever Grieve Thee' this morning at church (and, in fact, from going to church at all).
Apparently, this cold has also impacted my judgment (yes, THAT'S why I bought more hipster pants! Of course!). So much so that when I went to take some cold medicine this afternoon, I stared at the label on the bottle for about ten minutes, concluded it was the one I wanted, took a dose, and only realized roughly half an hour later that the cold medicine I'd taken is the night-time formulation, which knocks me out hard.
In fact, the fact that I am here typing this post represents something of a minor miracle — a minor miracle begotten by a strong case of the munchies, which was begotten by, you guessed it, the cold medicine.
Most of the time, I try not to add anything to my ongoing regimen of asthma and allergy meds (which, by the way, is down to just cetirizine — that's generic Zyrtec — and Singulair) — but when I do, I go for the good stuff.
Specifically, I get Tylenol's wretched blue liquid, which tastes absolutely horrible but works pretty darned well, in one form or another. The night-time kind contains doxylamine succinate, an antihistamine, which both helps control cold symptoms and makes it very, very hard for me to stay awake. It's classified as an anticholinergic, which isn't terribly important, but I really like the word 'anticholinergic.' That means, basically, that it blocks or reduces the action of acetylcholine, a major neurotransmitter.
Apparently, however, it also gives me the munchies, which I didn't realize, because usually when I take it, I'm on my way to bed.
I don't suppose this should be terribly surprising. The ingredient in question is a central nervous system depressant, and for some reason those seem to invoke the need to feed (stimulants, like psuedoephedrine, better known as Sudafed, tend to have the opposite effect). Certain other substances famous for inducing bouts of 'the munchies' are also CNS depressants (though most have other traits as well), but I haven't tried any of those, so I can't say whether the experience is the same or different. I have been known to have a glass of wine now and then, and since I'm a profound lightweight, I can say that the effect of doxylamine is, for me, very much like being quite tipsy. And tired. And having the munchies. Also it makes me transpose homonyms, but I have been careful to go back and fix them.
At any rate, I am presently quite drugged, as it were, and thus everything is surprising.
So I have stayed awake long enough to wait for dinner, which DD graciously made for me, which is good because I would not, in fact, trust myself in the kitchen at the moment. For the record, DD makes a mean meatloaf. In the intervening near-two-hours, however, I have consumed roughly half a pound of grapes, two handfuls of pretzel sticks, a small blueberry muffin left over from breakfast, and two glasses of chocolate milk.
Yeah, did I mention I had the munchies?
Also, the meatloaf was really quite good.
These are the days that make me mighty glad I'm a cyclist. Otherwise I would weigh 4,000 pounds and look very much like the Sta-Puft Marshmallow man, indeed.
PS: I did not ride the bike today, since I try to take one day off per week and I'm feeling pretty rotten anyway. However, I did ride about six miles yesterday, eighteen on Friday, fourteen on Thursday, twenty or so on Wednesday, and sixteen or so on Tuesday.
Also, I have a product review forthcoming. I think I will write it when I am not drugged.
I seem to have acquired a nasty cold.
'Nasty' in the sense that it is painful and unpleasant (and is causing my head to leak quantities of goo so copious that I am forced to wonder whence cometh all the raw materials). Nasty also in the sense that it came out of nowhere — yesterday, I woke up with a sore throat. By evening, I was hacking up a lung, though initially I blamed the 20-mph-uphill-through-woodsmoke ride I took on my way home from the store (where I bought more FHPs, God help me). Nasty also because it prevented me from singing Brahms' 'Let Nothing Ever Grieve Thee' this morning at church (and, in fact, from going to church at all).
Apparently, this cold has also impacted my judgment (yes, THAT'S why I bought more hipster pants! Of course!). So much so that when I went to take some cold medicine this afternoon, I stared at the label on the bottle for about ten minutes, concluded it was the one I wanted, took a dose, and only realized roughly half an hour later that the cold medicine I'd taken is the night-time formulation, which knocks me out hard.
In fact, the fact that I am here typing this post represents something of a minor miracle — a minor miracle begotten by a strong case of the munchies, which was begotten by, you guessed it, the cold medicine.
Most of the time, I try not to add anything to my ongoing regimen of asthma and allergy meds (which, by the way, is down to just cetirizine — that's generic Zyrtec — and Singulair) — but when I do, I go for the good stuff.
Specifically, I get Tylenol's wretched blue liquid, which tastes absolutely horrible but works pretty darned well, in one form or another. The night-time kind contains doxylamine succinate, an antihistamine, which both helps control cold symptoms and makes it very, very hard for me to stay awake. It's classified as an anticholinergic, which isn't terribly important, but I really like the word 'anticholinergic.' That means, basically, that it blocks or reduces the action of acetylcholine, a major neurotransmitter.
Apparently, however, it also gives me the munchies, which I didn't realize, because usually when I take it, I'm on my way to bed.
I don't suppose this should be terribly surprising. The ingredient in question is a central nervous system depressant, and for some reason those seem to invoke the need to feed (stimulants, like psuedoephedrine, better known as Sudafed, tend to have the opposite effect). Certain other substances famous for inducing bouts of 'the munchies' are also CNS depressants (though most have other traits as well), but I haven't tried any of those, so I can't say whether the experience is the same or different. I have been known to have a glass of wine now and then, and since I'm a profound lightweight, I can say that the effect of doxylamine is, for me, very much like being quite tipsy. And tired. And having the munchies. Also it makes me transpose homonyms, but I have been careful to go back and fix them.
At any rate, I am presently quite drugged, as it were, and thus everything is surprising.
So I have stayed awake long enough to wait for dinner, which DD graciously made for me, which is good because I would not, in fact, trust myself in the kitchen at the moment. For the record, DD makes a mean meatloaf. In the intervening near-two-hours, however, I have consumed roughly half a pound of grapes, two handfuls of pretzel sticks, a small blueberry muffin left over from breakfast, and two glasses of chocolate milk.
Yeah, did I mention I had the munchies?
Also, the meatloaf was really quite good.
These are the days that make me mighty glad I'm a cyclist. Otherwise I would weigh 4,000 pounds and look very much like the Sta-Puft Marshmallow man, indeed.
PS: I did not ride the bike today, since I try to take one day off per week and I'm feeling pretty rotten anyway. However, I did ride about six miles yesterday, eighteen on Friday, fourteen on Thursday, twenty or so on Wednesday, and sixteen or so on Tuesday.
Also, I have a product review forthcoming. I think I will write it when I am not drugged.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Farking Hipster Pants FTW
On Tuesday, I woke up at a reasonable hour (6:45 AM) relative to the time I needed to be at work (8:00 AM), but somehow managed to take a bazillion years getting dressed and so forth.
I also blithely failed to acknowledge that the average temperature has, in the span of a couple of days, dropped from 90 to about 70, with morning temps in the 40s (all temperatures given in Fahrenheit, in this particular example, umm, err, because I'm an Amurkin?)— and by the time I stepped out the door and realized that merely adding socks and my rain jacket to my usual wardrobe would not actually suffice, it was too late to do anything about it. Besides, I didn't actually have any pants to speak of.
Rather, I didn't have any bike-friendly pants.
I do own a couple of trouser straps, and they might've come in handy if I had every gotten around to unpacking my laundry (um ... er ... oh, yeah, I kind of moved, for realz this time).
Thus, I spent the first three-quarters of my ride trying to find a way to fold my poor frozen fingers back into my gloves (ha!) and my knees, while they felt fine during the ride, took until roughly 3:30 PM to warm up to living-person temperatures.
As such, I decided that spending a little of my not-so-hard-earned money on some winter stuff might be a good idea.
This afternoon, I devoted an hour or so and around $30 to the acquisition of what one might call an abbreviated winter wardrobe — including a hat, two pairs of stretchy gloves to go under my cycling gloves, a pair of 'jogging tights' which are basically exactly like cycling tights only they cost $12 instead of $120, an orange hoodie, and, yes, I admit it, a pair of what can only be described as 'farking hipster pants' ... though I'm sure there are those of us who prefer adjectives stronger than 'farking' be coupled with the word 'hipster.'
Yes, it's true: I have at last succumbed to the pressures of natural selection and acquired a pair of skin-tight pants with pockets and a zip fly — not so much because I desire to be a hipster — I don't — but because they are fuzzy on the inside, will keep my knees warm on the way to work (and in the shop), and will let me carry my wallet in their pockets. At least, they will if I actually remember to bring it with me. Awesome.
They're also black. Black is slimming. I can't say I thought I was slim enough for farking hipster pants, but these actually look pretty sharp ... so I'm pretty happy about that.
Sadly, I seem to be slowly transforming into one of those people who wear tight clothes. I suppose this would be more of a problem if I was concerned with folks questioning my sexuality. Since I assume (sometimes incorrectly) that everyone already knows I'm gay, I'm really not worried about it.
Working in a bike shop has made me rather more strikingly aware of the sort of bizarro-world dynamics of the cycling community: only in the Cycling Zone does one generally encounter bearded, masculine men who are already slimmer than average guys and are still concerned about trimming off that last 10 or 15 pounds (actually, come to think of it, one also encounters this sort of thing in the world of Muay Thai, but not so much with the beards). Only in the Cycling Zone do people grasp how I can look at myself — a small-boned guy who wears a size 32 waist — and think, "Man, I'm fat." (Unfortunately, because of my build, that is somewhat true: at my 'fighting weight,' I wear a size 28, without actually being underweight — small bones FTW.)
Speaking of fat cyclists, good ol' Elden recently moved all his old posts to his current server, which is really neat for those of us who haven't been following him all that long (like me). This was how I learned that our favorite Fatty is actually shorter than I am (by about an inch) and that as such I should feel pretty okay about my prospects as a racer at 155 pounds (which isn't to say I've whittled myself down to 155 yet, but I'm well on my way).
Not to say I expect to win races, precisely (aside: how many sports are there out there where the vast majority of competitors totally fantasize about winning but have absolutely no expectations of actually ever doing so?) — well, maybe a couple of collegiate D-level races, if I ever actually get the team going at IUS — but I would like to look less fat relative to the other guys who are also busy losing :) Also, I have definitely noticed that more fat I trim off, the better my body works. This should not surprise me, because I was a skinny and very athletic kid, and was actually quite slim for most of my life, and aced anatomy and physiology my first year in college — but it does.
By the bye — Fatty is also giving away Levi Leipheimer's bike at the moment, so if you want to join in his fight against cancer, now seems like a good time. Not that there's a bad time for that.
Hm.
Well, since I have now spent this entire post more or less obsessing about my weight, I'm going to go stand on the scale and cry. No, just kidding. I'm going to avoid the scale entirely, because I don't want to be That Guy.
In other news, I promise I will get back to logging mileage shortly. I finished well over 400 miles for September, only to be shown up by an 82-year-old lady (no lie!) who came into the shop. After she left, our primo wrench mentioned in passing that she put 571 miles on her bike last month!
Wow!
That's who I wanna be when I'm 82.
Um, minus the lady part.
I also blithely failed to acknowledge that the average temperature has, in the span of a couple of days, dropped from 90 to about 70, with morning temps in the 40s (all temperatures given in Fahrenheit, in this particular example, umm, err, because I'm an Amurkin?)— and by the time I stepped out the door and realized that merely adding socks and my rain jacket to my usual wardrobe would not actually suffice, it was too late to do anything about it. Besides, I didn't actually have any pants to speak of.
Rather, I didn't have any bike-friendly pants.
I do own a couple of trouser straps, and they might've come in handy if I had every gotten around to unpacking my laundry (um ... er ... oh, yeah, I kind of moved, for realz this time).
Thus, I spent the first three-quarters of my ride trying to find a way to fold my poor frozen fingers back into my gloves (ha!) and my knees, while they felt fine during the ride, took until roughly 3:30 PM to warm up to living-person temperatures.
As such, I decided that spending a little of my not-so-hard-earned money on some winter stuff might be a good idea.
This afternoon, I devoted an hour or so and around $30 to the acquisition of what one might call an abbreviated winter wardrobe — including a hat, two pairs of stretchy gloves to go under my cycling gloves, a pair of 'jogging tights' which are basically exactly like cycling tights only they cost $12 instead of $120, an orange hoodie, and, yes, I admit it, a pair of what can only be described as 'farking hipster pants' ... though I'm sure there are those of us who prefer adjectives stronger than 'farking' be coupled with the word 'hipster.'
Yes, it's true: I have at last succumbed to the pressures of natural selection and acquired a pair of skin-tight pants with pockets and a zip fly — not so much because I desire to be a hipster — I don't — but because they are fuzzy on the inside, will keep my knees warm on the way to work (and in the shop), and will let me carry my wallet in their pockets. At least, they will if I actually remember to bring it with me. Awesome.
They're also black. Black is slimming. I can't say I thought I was slim enough for farking hipster pants, but these actually look pretty sharp ... so I'm pretty happy about that.
Sadly, I seem to be slowly transforming into one of those people who wear tight clothes. I suppose this would be more of a problem if I was concerned with folks questioning my sexuality. Since I assume (sometimes incorrectly) that everyone already knows I'm gay, I'm really not worried about it.
Working in a bike shop has made me rather more strikingly aware of the sort of bizarro-world dynamics of the cycling community: only in the Cycling Zone does one generally encounter bearded, masculine men who are already slimmer than average guys and are still concerned about trimming off that last 10 or 15 pounds (actually, come to think of it, one also encounters this sort of thing in the world of Muay Thai, but not so much with the beards). Only in the Cycling Zone do people grasp how I can look at myself — a small-boned guy who wears a size 32 waist — and think, "Man, I'm fat." (Unfortunately, because of my build, that is somewhat true: at my 'fighting weight,' I wear a size 28, without actually being underweight — small bones FTW.)
Speaking of fat cyclists, good ol' Elden recently moved all his old posts to his current server, which is really neat for those of us who haven't been following him all that long (like me). This was how I learned that our favorite Fatty is actually shorter than I am (by about an inch) and that as such I should feel pretty okay about my prospects as a racer at 155 pounds (which isn't to say I've whittled myself down to 155 yet, but I'm well on my way).
Not to say I expect to win races, precisely (aside: how many sports are there out there where the vast majority of competitors totally fantasize about winning but have absolutely no expectations of actually ever doing so?) — well, maybe a couple of collegiate D-level races, if I ever actually get the team going at IUS — but I would like to look less fat relative to the other guys who are also busy losing :) Also, I have definitely noticed that more fat I trim off, the better my body works. This should not surprise me, because I was a skinny and very athletic kid, and was actually quite slim for most of my life, and aced anatomy and physiology my first year in college — but it does.
By the bye — Fatty is also giving away Levi Leipheimer's bike at the moment, so if you want to join in his fight against cancer, now seems like a good time. Not that there's a bad time for that.
Hm.
Well, since I have now spent this entire post more or less obsessing about my weight, I'm going to go stand on the scale and cry. No, just kidding. I'm going to avoid the scale entirely, because I don't want to be That Guy.
In other news, I promise I will get back to logging mileage shortly. I finished well over 400 miles for September, only to be shown up by an 82-year-old lady (no lie!) who came into the shop. After she left, our primo wrench mentioned in passing that she put 571 miles on her bike last month!
Wow!
That's who I wanna be when I'm 82.
Um, minus the lady part.
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