Biking Naked

I had that dream again. I don't have it often but it's ingrained. The details can change but the emotions are the same.

I'm going through normal life. Normal behavior. I'm getting ready to go for a bike ride. I grab a 20 ouncer and fill it with sport drink. I check the tires and inflate to 100 psi, the recommendation for my trainers. I put on my road shoes, saving the tri-shoes for races. I grab my helmet, where inside I find gloves and sunglasses at the ready from my last ride. I shove off and glide the incline down my drive out into the street. I clip in and spin a bit to ensure a good connection. After a few houses, I turn the corner onto the longer road. I bring my cadence up to a comfortable 92 rpms. That's the sweet spot and I get settled in to the ride. That's when I look down and notice something is wrong. I'm biking naked.

And I mean in the figurative sense, not the literal sense. It's much the same as people who leave the house and forget their watch. They are so used to wearing a watch that not having one feels wrong. They say, "I feel naked without without my watch."

However, in this dream, it's not about the watch. This problem is worse: There are no aerobars on this bike. See, I only feel like I'm biking naked, again, in the figurative sense. I'm riding my road bike and the clip-on areos are also not there. I've got the bullhorn type handlebars. I have hoods and drops. Neither are cutting it. Then I blink, only to realize that this is not a dream. I would scream out but I understand that yelling would do me no good.

I've been riding my triathlon bike for so long, it just seems right. I reserve my road bike for only a few occasions.

• Crappy weather
• Salt on the roads (post crappy weather)
• Group riding (which has actually not happened yet)
• Commuting to work
• Casual riding with friends
• Tri-bike in the shop

Cornering not a problem

Right now, I've got the good bike in the shop, matching the criteria of pulling the roadie off the rafters and getting it out into traffic. There are rumors that say the road bike has a few advantages over a tri-bike. Some think that it accelerates, climbs, and corners more efficiently. Others think that it is more comfortable.

I'm not buying it. I prefer to lie down while exercising. I do not enjoy holding myself up by my wrists. I am quite comfortable, even after a century ride. I never get hand tingling anymore. I'm working on the hills (which suck on both bikes). How many corners do I really encounter anyway?


When my tri-bike got back from the shop, apparently my rear hub needed an overhaul. When coasting at higher speeds, the cogs would spin at a different rate than my wheel causing a nasty vibration. It was an easy fix and they had it done in a jiffy.

The road bike is nice but I prefer biking with all the right parts in all the right places. Public nudity, like it or not, is not currently allowed on the roads and neither should be my road bike if I can help it. I only had to do one short ride on the roadie. And I missed my aerobars.

Worst Pre-Workout Foods

I've been inadvertently participating in a scientific n=1 sort of experiment in food. As with all experiments, this one started off with an observation... I've come to notice that there are certain foods that enhance your workout. Other foods are neutral. Some foods just plain ruin your chances of having a good training day. It's the latter that I've been mostly concerned. Here's the philosophy... I know for a fact that I can't have a great workout every time. It's only natural that some workouts are going to suck. I'd at least like to remove food from the list of reasons that I biffed a good opportunity.

To be fair, I'd like to offer some definitions. First, this is about food, not about drink. I may experiment later on beverages, which sounds completely hysterical. I'll probably withhold that until after IMLP. Second, 'pre-workout' is defined as the 3 hours immediately preceding  the event. I am purposefully excluding breakfast (since I can't get my lazy bum out of bed in the morning) or yesterday's dinner (my brain is not capable of such long-term analysis). Third, I recognize that any food, when eaten in copious amounts, can be workout debilitating. I'd like to focus on normal, non-competitive eating.

Here's my personal top 5 Worst Pre-Workout Foods, in random order:

Pancakes
Not sure why. They are loaded with complex carbs. Simple carbs. Protein. Fat. Butter. High Fructose Corn Syrup. They have absolutely no additional nutrition in the form of vitamins and minerals. There's nothing extraneous holding this food back. This seems to be the kind of food that is screaming energizer bunny. Yet, every time I've attempted the pre-workout pancake breakfast/ dinner, my performance has been as flat as the proverbial flapjack.

Corned Beef and Cabbage
I am completely uncertain how to 'corn' meat, but I doubt there is actual corn added to the beef. This St. Patrick's Day favorite is quite tasty and really should be common at more times in the year. Often served with potatoes, it helped the Irish survive long periods of winter and cold. It should help you survive a long run. But, it's long term effects continue for an entire season of training. The concoction of meat and vegetable stays with you from St. Patty's until Easter like a concrete block tied to your ankle and dumped into your stomach.

Turkey
Not the processed, lunch meat kind. I'm talking the real deal, the delicious feathered friend that Ben Franklin once wanted to be our national bird. It's long been thought that there's a chemical in turkey called tryptophan that induces a sleep-like stupor upon eating the fowl. Whereas turkey does have this amino acid, the sleep-aid hypothesis has long been since refuted. Still, people cling to archaic ideas like a two-year-old clings to his bah-bah, refusing to let it go. Doesn't matter. Despite the evidence negating tryptophan, turkey induces a culture of post-consumption fatigue. There's a reason Thanksgiving doesn't feature any turkey trots after noon. We have been trained since our youth to eat turkey, sit, and nap. Even without football on TV, turkey is best reserved when for when your workout goals include not moving.

Mexican Food
Instead of a single food, the entire genre of foods apply here. The most famous ingredient in Mexican dishes is called capsaicin. Capsaicin is a long acknowledged antibacterial, allowing our Latin-American brethren to consume without risk of food-borne illnesses. It is also what gives salsa that burning feeling as you swallow and is rumored to put hair on your chest (not good, especially if you're female). Add in beans, tomatoes, green peppers, and onions and you ensure that every 5th stride on a run with be met with a burped-up version of what went down. Let's not mention the after-burn that happens on day 2 of the Mexican food experience.

The Garbage Plate
Originally introduced on this blog here, it seems that I can't stop picking on this dish. This food physically frightens me. In my defense, I have never actually attempted the test in-vivo. In-vitro experimentation, meaning that I have only thought of eating a Garbage Plate then attempted a workout, has yielded sloth-like results. I have been slow, sluggish, and absurdly bloated. This food is so powerful, it ruined my workout without actually putting a single morsel into my mouth. Garbage Plates may be deities in the diet ruining arena.

This, in no way, suggests that I do not eat these foods, except for maybe the Garbage Plate. In fact, I recommend eating them, except for the GP. I have eaten them all many times, except for the GP, and will continue to invade my weekly calorie count. As an aside, if you are competing in the Ironman Lake Placid, in my age group, and can beat me, I highly recommend you eat a Garbage Plate the night before AND the morning of the event. Send me a note and I'll bring a few for you to experiment with towards the end of July. For the rest of you, my advice is to savor them post-workout when the burning, bloating, and sluggishness does not impede performance.

Did I miss anything?

Greatest Swimming Advice Ever

What I'm about to tell you has never before been put in print by a swimmer or a triathlete. It is a secret that has been handed down from generation to generation of swimmers. The only people who know this sacred bit of wisdom are swimmers or former-swimmers. Coaches will pull only the lucky few aside and share this with only the best of the best. The elite get eliter and the others get brushed by the wayside.

"Well then," you ask, "how is it that the Banter knows?" Whereas it's true that I was a former swimmer and have had many a coach over the years, it's also quite well known that I was not considered great. Elite was definitely not an adjective used to describe me. I may have been good. Fortunately, the word 'good' encompasses a spectrum of possibilities in which I might have snuck in at the end. I would accept that, at one point in my life, for a short period of time, I was something close to good.

Anyway, how do I know? It just so happened that one day, back in my days as a swimmer, as opposed to my former-swimmer present self, I had a coach who was privy to the secret knowledge. Or, at least I think he was. How he got it I was unsure. He had something and he was willing to share. Just not with me. Awkward on multiple levels. There was also a guy on the team who fit the description of the inner circle (translation, he was good, not marginally good). Truth be told, I had beaten that guy in a set on more than one occasion. And, since I'm writing truthfully, he was doing sculling drills and I was in a sprint set. But, a win is a win and I had won. So I got that snippet of bragging rights over this guy.

Well, one day I happened to be walking past coach's office on my way to class. This was in college and even though I was a Division I, NCAA Student Athlete, general education requirements forced me to take a physical education class. Our school offered the most ridiculous PE options, such as weight lifting and theory of sport. Seriously? How do those classes have practical world applications? But, requirements are just that, required. It was obvious at that stage of my life that a career as a professional swimmer was likely out of the question. I did not even bother retaining an agent nor entering my name independently into the Pro Swimmer's Draft, a decision that I regret to this day. You never know. Regardless, I was requisitioned to a PE class.

As I was heading towards the weight room (I opted not to take theory), I noticed that Coach's door was slightly ajar. I had full intention on wasting time before class by talking theory with Coach (I know, the irony). I could hear Coach talking in hushed tones. Now, if ever you want someone to listen, you should drop your voice and whisper. People will think it's important and strain extra hard to hear what you are saying (that was a free tip and not the intention of this message). Through the crack in the door, I could see that he was talking to one of the guys on my team. I was waiting for the right moment to knock and announce my presence. I am ashamed to admit that I was satisfied in my eavesdropping at the time.

"Here's what all the great swimmers know. All of them. Mark Spitz, Pablo Morales, Jenny Thompson. Hell, even Natalie Coughlin and Michael Phelps know this." Coach said.

I could plainly see that Coach had my teammate's attention as well as mine. I was even more surprised at the naming of Phelps and Coughlin. Not because of their swimming status but because this was the early 90's, Michael was only about 5 years old and Natalie was 8. Sure, they could still have beaten me in the water but that's getting a little off topic.

"There is a life of swimming after swimming," Coach continued. Then he launched into a tale of epic proportions. I am not a detail-oriented guy and some of the exact words are lost in the jungle of brain rot I have swishing in my cranium. I am, to the best of my knowledge, a good paraphraser and generally get the gist of the message even when the specifics are blurred.

Coach's story told of adults that joined adult teams at non-competitive pools. They had community pools and these things called "YMCAs". (Aside: I had to look up the latter only to realize that the YMCA was synonymous with the Y. Apparently, the national governing body had decided that YMCA was too long to write and to pronounce resulting in a name change to just one letter. End aside.) There's also a good chance that this pool is not within walking distance from campus (although, he may have said house). You have to drive. And, there's a good chance that you'll be swimming in the morning because the afternoon times are controlled by screaming children. And, there is also a good chance that your suit will be semi-wet upon changing. Finally, there's a chance that you don't like donning a cold, wet suit. Coach was taking a lot of chances here, which turned out to be true on all accounts.

Here's the Ancient Swimming Advice:
Place your suit on the dashboard of your car while commuting to the pool. Turn on the heat to defrost. By the time you arrive at the pool, the suit will have absorbed and stored some of the heat making it wonderfully pleasant to your boys or lady spot.

Up until that point, I had been putting on a cold, wet suit which was not fun for my boys. I can't imagine it would be good for your lady spot (assuming any ladies actually read my blog, swim, and have sensitive lady spots). So now, I faithfully drive to the Y, happily dropping 3 letters from my vocabulary, place the suit on the dash, and defrost set to full heat and high. Upon arrival, I look forward to pulling on that warm, fresh-out-of-the-dryer lycra jammer. My lady spot boys have never complained since.

Now, if only I could remember what Coach said about staring at the water for 10 minutes before jumping in, out of fear that the water may be cold, especially when you know that the water temps are super high. That would be a good story to tell too.

Skill Searching

I am jealous of people who have skills (use your best Napoleon Dynamite voice here). The Wife, she's got crazy good computer, problem solving skills. The BIL, he's a genius in meteorology and quite the skilled brewer of ales. My dad can fix things, a real handyman of sorts. (Granted, he's lazy and unmotivated, of which I have inherited, but has fix-it skills that I did not inherit). Me? I've got nothing. I've been long searching for a skill that can set me apart from the average man. Something that I can say, "Yup, I can do that better that the average bloke." After my first race of the season, I think I've found it...

Get ready to laugh

I'm relatively good at running down hills. I had no idea that this was in my skill set. I have been doing hill repeats since I can remember. I don't like them but I recognize their benefit. And, after all these years, I have been focusing on the uphill. My progress on the ascent has been stagnant at best. I never thought that there was a collateral benefit of developing any skill on the other side. How did I miss this? Or, rather, how do I know? Race data.

Two weeks ago, I competed in a 15k hilly course run. Having lost all of the important data to the mythical Garmin Never-Never Land, I got none of the heart rate, speed, distance, hills profile, pacing stuff that I wanted to analyze. Not that I am all that great in data analysis (remember; not many skills), I really wanted to look at the graphs as pretty little pictures of a day's work well done. What I got was a big void for the morning's run. I had to look at the anecdotal evidence to help. And the anecdote that repeats in my brain was a story told by Bob.

As a warning, I am not good with names. Bob may actually be this guy's real name. On the other hand, it may not even be close. I remember what Bob looks like. I remember that I beat him in the race. I also remember him being one of the older runners that passed me around the 9.2 mile mark in a 9.3 mile race. You can go back to my original tale if you want the full(er) story. If I checked the official race results, I am sure I could find his real name. But, I have not downloaded the official results as of yet (see note above on my dad and inheritance). Alas, his name is not all that important in this ditty, only his recap of the event to his other friend, during which I was present.

We were walking down the path towards or respective vehicles with smiles ablazing. Bob was reciting how he thought he was going to beat me in the race because it was quite obvious that he was better on the uphills but I smoked him on the downhills.

Bob's Tale

Fade in:
It's a blissful, crisp spring morning. About 500 idiots gathered on a park road to go for a run. Just a run. No swim or bikes present. In the background, there's a woman announcing various race related garble-de-gook voiced-over a musical mix of supposed pump-up tunes. The starting line, where I was standing, was just a white-chalked vector with the word "start". It was roughly a quarter mile away from where the woman's chatter and music seemed to be sourced. Nearer the starting line, a man with a bull horn shouted out the ever-important race instructions with such authority and intensity that no one was listening. The crowd knew the drill and was singularly focused on a spot about 800 yards ahead, to which they would soon be running. Suddenly, there was a yell that stirred the people into action, hundreds of watches beeped to life, and we were launched forward into our human Pamplona.

The first mile was a bit chaotic. The mass of flesh and spandex was being hurdled southward. To stop was to die underneath the pitter-patter of all sorts of colorful shoes developed for every kind of pronation imagined. After the first gradual uphill and some distance away from the chalkline, the shoulders of my neighbors thinned from about 15 across to about 3 across. We had dropped into our paces. The biggest hills loomed off in the distance begging to be conquered.

I was running in a mixed pack of about 6 or so. We'd be together on the flats hitting the same pace for the past three-quarters of a mile. As we turned the corner, there she was like Olympus laughing at the Greeks, the first real hill of the day. My pack and I start going up. Based on the views of their butts, they were gapping me. These men and women with relatively nice, runner-type figures were ascending the hill. They showed me no mercy. They tackled that hill with ease and grace, leaving me behind to wallow in my own self-struggle for precious oxygen. They were gone and I was betrayed. I made the crest and they were still in sight but I started the descent alone.

Then, a miracle happened. I caught my group roughly halfway down the slope. I was not happy to see them. I was seething with vengeance. "How dare you leave me?" I wanted to shout! But, I held it in. I let gravity work its magic and widened the gap between me and my now-former running mates. The slope was long enough for me to catch a new pack and run with them, my old allegiances forgotten.

That's the way the morning went. I'd go searching for a new group on the downs and flats only to be betrayed on the ups. I was making good time and had yet to develop any true adversaries, except for Bob. Bob was in the original pack and had his sights set on me. Why he chose me I did not know. It's just that in Bob's eyes, I had a target painted on my back and he just got his hunting license renewed. Bob was not only older but wiser, more experienced, and had run the course several times before. He knew exactly when to fire his shot.

I, of course, was completely oblivious to all of this. I didn't even know Bob existed until that morning. And I, in my arrogance, did not pay him any attention. I was the prey on an island in which I believed existed no predators. Therefore, I kept running. I'd limp up the one side and fly down the other ignoring all those that I passed. Up slow and down like a flash flood.

The course was cruel. Between marks 8.5 and 9.1, there was a lot more ascending than the opposite. Despite having built a sizable lead over Bob, I was being reeled in. Step by laborious step, Bob was closing the chasm. Worse for me, he brought along the pack. They all followed his lead for he was the Alpha with a plan and I was a pawn just trying to survive the storm. At roughly the 9.15 mile mark, Bob and the gang overtook me. I saw their familiar backsides and became enraged. The emotion was wasted. There was still a smidgen more hill and it was pointed up. They were better than me but the event was not over. This was a 9.3 mile race, my adversaries were in the lead and time was slipping away. But, Pandora let Hope out of the box as well and I clung to that thought as I started the flat.

I came now where near winning the overall prize on the day but inside every race are many other races not reported in the newspapers nor covered on TV. Just because the media refuses to acknowledge the sub-races does not means they do not exist. I am sure there were hundreds of battles waged that morning and this is only the tale of mine. Had the race ended at the chalk line, I would have lost. But remember, the lady was announcing from a distance. She was camped near the finish line. Her voice was the one that welcomed the battle-hardened survivors. She was also downhill from me. Downhill. The battle-tide was about to turn for the last time this morn.

From mile 9.2 to the glorious arch labeled "Finish" was a sharp gradient leading to a lake. Fortunately, they put the arch several hundred feet in front of the beach allowing for plenty of stopping time before you took the plunge. A quick dog-leg right started the sprint. Bob's pack spent their wad on the last bit of ups and I surged for the victory buried in the 90'th places.

Bob was a gracious loser in our personal battle. He, after the conclusion of the race, walked right up to me with a big grin on his face, looked me in the eye, shook my hand, and said, "Wow, what a run!" Several members of the pack did the same. As it turns out, they had the same goal as I did on the run, sub-1:10. I had apparently helped them achieve their goal. Adversaries no more, rather we were allies in a war against a common enemy.

"Still," Bob said as we were heading towards our get-away vehicles, "I wanted to beat you. I thought I had succeeded too. I had forgotten about that last down." A member of Bob's gang, who had beaten us both, looked at Bob quizzically. "We'd go past on the uphills and this guy would fly right on by on the downs. I don't know how he did it. He was clearly better at running downhill than us."
Fade out.

After all of my skill searching, it took a keen observation from a guy who may or may not have been named Bob to identify my skill. So there you have it. Based on this race, I can finally say these words. I can run downhill better than the average bloke. It's not much and has very little real-world, practical applications, but I'll take it.