The Space I'm In

Do you ever really know what someone is going through?

Seven weeks ago it started.

It was a two-mile drive between the store and the former BCB’s. Something tweaked, my back seized, and I couldn’t straighten my leg or stand straight. I had done…nothing…nothing to trigger it.

I set my jaw, clenched my teeth, and got on with it.

- - -

Cyclocross season was coming! I had dedicated myself to training. I had attended a weekend camp to work on the vast known unknown of my skills (I know I have no skills, I simply do not know the extent to which I have no skill). I was preparing to do something I had lost three years ago—race ‘cross. Pin on a number, get dirty, give it a go, have fun—those were my goals. Could I get to eight races? I hoped so. Again, that was my goal.

Seven weeks ago it started.

I haven’t been on a bike since.

- - -

My pain got bad. Nerve pain is different from a strained muscle. Nerve pain is a different cause. It triggers the muscles. They seize. They hurt. But, they’re not the cause—they are the symptom.

It was the nausea that did it. When the pain spiked to the point that I couldn’t eat, I knew things were bad. By that point everything had shifted. It wasn’t back pain anymore.

- - -

Chronic pain changes you. 

Whatever your goals, whatever your aspirations, whomever it is you wish to be, you can throw it all away when the pain becomes the filter through which you experience your day. When your clenched jaw and the taste of blood become normal, you are changed.

You snap. You bark. You flinch. 

You avoid people, interactions, experiences. 

You retreat. 

- - -

The back got better, the situation changed, but the situation was not better. I wasn’t improved.

The nausea was nothing like seasickness. It was nothing like a stomach flu. It was a dull, insistent, low-frequency wave. Ever-present, debilitating, it slowed me further.

My hip felt bruised—on the inside. My bowels flared as though something was trying to punch its way out of me. Stomach spasms spiked randomly.

It wasn’t my back.

It wasn’t a nerve.

Was it my psoas?

- - -

Fear changes you. 

Whatever your goals, whatever your aspirations, whomever it is you wish to be, you can throw it all away when fear becomes the filter through which you experience your day. When your clenched jaw and the taste of blood become normal, you are changed.

You flinch. 

You avoid people, interactions, experiences. 

You retreat. 

- - -

I’ve never been “given” a prognosis. The tumor sitting inside me sits there—inaccessible.

My doctors quote statistics—if you have no cancer activity two years from the end of chemotherapy, you have a 96%, 97%, 98%, 99% likelihood of living cancer-free.

You’re in relapse! Isn’t it wonderful?

To my oncologists, I am a success story.

But I’ve been here before—I was seven years out when it relapsed. I was a one-percenter. No one saw it coming.

This time things are different. I have dead cancer sitting inside me. “It’s inactive”, I’m told.

“Yup”, I reply.

And I wait.

- - - 

I have zero confidence that my cancer is clear. 

Stated differently, I am absolutely certain that it is coming back.

That’s learned experience, its not defeatist attitude.

I live in the shadow of “when”.

Rightly or wrongly, that is my every day.

- - - 

My alarm rang this morning at 0230. I was on the train at 0330. They drew blood at 0730. I was scanned at 0930. I got results at 3:30.

It’s not cancer.

Oh, there’s something wrong. I’m scheduled for follow-up tests.

We believe it is likely scar tissue and adhesions irritating major nerves. It may be an issue with the psoas itself. It’s also likely that I have chemo-induced necrosis in my hip joint. Either. Both. All. Real problems. 

“You’re entitled to have issues,” I’m told by my oncologist, “you’ve been through a lot.”

- - - 

I live in a very strange space.

Chronic pain triggered me. At its worst, I had dry heaves from the spasms. It still gets bad, but I managed it with a three-day fast and a radical change of diet.

Fear dominated me. At its worst I browned-out from the anxiety-attack hyperventilation. Last night it started again. I managed it by audio-mixing two podcast episodes. Six hours straight, immersive work. 

Whatever my goals, whatever my aspirations, I threw them all away. Survival was the goal. Survival remains the goal.

When pain and fear becomes the filter through which you experience your day, you are no longer you. You may aspire to be the person your dog thinks you are, but that’s not an option. So, you clench your teeth until you taste the blood and your face cramps with the strain. And you get on with it.

You flinch. You avoid people, interactions, experiences. You retreat. 

- - - 

Seven weeks ago it started.

I battled it each and every minute. And most of the time it won.

If you’ve seen me over the past seven weeks, you’ve seen the mask and the shell. Most of my time has been spent bunkering, hunkering, preparing for the worst. 

Because the worst is part of me, and it will be—forever…

…however long that shall be.

- - - 

I’m still in pain. I’m still afraid. 

And while I’m entitled to have issues…

And while my fears are valid…

And while the pain is real…

I wonder what that gets me.

I understand the past seven weeks. But I hate it. 

I hate the person I become, even as I empathize with him. 

I abhor things done and undone and said and unsaid, even as I forgive myself.

And tomorrow the sun will rise again. And soon I will have more tests, and soon I will have more answers and decisions and things I need to do and have done.

So, I set my jaw, clench my teeth, and get on with it….until I taste the blood and my face cramps with the strain.

And I’ll continue on, trying to be the man I aspire to be.

I say it all the time, because to fake it is to make it:

I’ve got this.

It's Alright, It's OK

I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?

It’s a question I’ve heard a lot over the past year or so. Returning to normal life, and work, and play—simply living—people have been variously kind and thoughtful and clueless when first talking with me.

My stock answer had always been: “l’m not dead, yet!”

But recently, it’s changed.

I’d wanted it to change for a while. I’d been ready, but I held back. I needed to pass a milestone first, before I could free myself.

And now I’ve crossed that milestone.

My Unremarkable Pelvis

Never have I been so happy to be described as “unchanged” and “unremarkable”. “Change” to me is an aspiration. “Remarkable” is a quality I admire.

But, this is different.

I recently had my now-permanant, semi-annual scan and evaluation at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. It’s a penitent pilgrimage I undertake. It’s a fundamental and necessary part of my living with cancer. It’s a journey that taxes me physically, psychically, and spiritually.

And it is a milestone. Every six months...time to make the donuts.

And the short version is that my results were…perfect. My blood is healthy. My scans are as clear as they can be (I have that residual mass…).

I have another six months…

Getting There

For the longest time I took strides forward, only to be knocked back. Sometimes I got knocked back and sideways. Other times I was spun around; dizzy and confused I fell on my arse. Usually spectacularly. Few people can fall on their arse with more style and less grace than can I.

I have a talent that way.

But recently, things have…shifted.

Living nightmares have become fugue dreams. Mistakes have become lessons. Challenges…opportunities. Fears have become hopes.

It’s not always that way. I have my bad days. But so do you.

What’s different is that every day is no longer a labor. I don’t go to bed wondering what will befall me tomorrow. I feel like I can handle things. Like I might actually got this.

I could dive inside and tell you how it feels to feel my body awaken. I could describe muscle warmth and sinew suppleness, cardiac confidence and respiratory renewal. I'm getting stronger. I'm finding me again.

I could wax rhapsodic about riding my bike (I've been known to go on about that...). I could share the of joy cycling with a goldfinch past bursting, cornflower-blue-brilliant wildflowers. I could romanticize the apparition of the golden bird that disappeared and reappeared, oddly rhythmically, among intermittent sunburst-yellow blooms.

I could do those things.

Isn't it glorious?

About Time

I’ve been thinking about time. It’s passage. It’s healing powers. It’s anxiety-inducing approach!

I’ve been thinking about people, and the lessons they often unintentionally teach. And about my willingness and ability to learn. And about how some lessons explode immediately, with insights strobe-flashing into awareness. And how others aggregate, accumulating over years before reaching their tipping point...and how I'm felled by revelations I should have known all along.

I’ve been thinking about how the former BCB has changed. And the LAs. And my parents. And my friends. And I see flashes of how temporal everything is, even as it seems permanent.

And how permanent some things are, even those that seemed temporary.

And I know that life can change in a second.

And I’ve learned that life is changing every moment. The river is never the same, no matter how many times you step into it. The stepping is the thing. It's what matters.

And I find comfort in that.

And it is good.

Redux

I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?

"I feel...good!"

It feels good to say so.

It feels good to write it.

What will be will be what will be.

I’ve got this.

Am I doing the right thing?

I made a decision. I am living it.

Did I choose the right thing?

I just got home, having spent the morning in a place I prefer to not remember. Today was scan-day up in New York, meaning that I had an 0300 wake-up for an 0800 call-up for an 0900 irradiated trip through the tube.

Smelled the same. Sounded the same. The same waiting room as my first scan in 2006.

The same fears—magnified and managed. I know too much, now. And I know me better.

But the travel trudgery weighs heavy.

- - -

I wasn’t going to sit with the littlest LA and watch Shaun the Sheep. I had other things I could do. But, she was having none of it.

“Daddy, I like watching with you.”

I paused, turned, “That’s sweet, honey. What makes you say that?”

“I like it when you laugh. It means you’re happy. And last year you couldn’t be happy. You were too sick. I like you this way.”

I smiled, deeply. I crawled on the couch. We snuggled.

We watched Shaun the Sheep.

- - -

I rounded the corner, passing the threshold from sterile hospitalness to faux-wood warm waiting-roomness. Despite my fast, my stomach fell. My throat closed. Cottonmouth swallow.

They’re nice here. Really nice. They get it.

Drink your drink, stay within. Conversations surround. Fear, mostly. Some anger, tinged with sadness. Mostly fear.

A woman howls, somewhere around a corner, down a hall. Plaintive whimpers, animal sounds.

A family next to me. One child to her mother, fear in her eyes: “what’s that, mommy?”

A pause.

Howls become…song. Moans become…gospel. No words, but melody. Meandering line, raw, worshipful blues, a song more ancient than history, more deeply-rooted than time.

“It’s a song,” answers the mother.

The child nods.

- - -

“I really hope your cancer stays away,” she says. Out of nowhere.

I blink.

“I don’t want you to get sick again.”

- - -

Winter-jacket stuffed locker key in hand, I turned another corner. She was there. The singer.

Emaciated, pregnant, writhing slowly on the gurney, robes and sheets askew, her voice tremulous, she stared unblinking at…nothing. Or, nothing I could see. Gods know what she saw; her pain-glazed pharmacological stupor.

I walked past.

My heart broke.

My stomach dropped lower, bowels liquefied.

I know that pain. I know that stupor.

But, with a baby?

My gods. With a baby…

- - -

The eldest LA and I are journaling. Together. She writes me a note. I write her back. It’s easier that way, for her. We share a book. It’s ours.

She’s thirteen, that horrible, wonderful, awkwardly-graceful age between childhood and womanhood. So many questions. So much to experience, to learn. So many ideas sparking, sparkling in her awareness. Such an exciting and terrifying time—for her. And for me.

She discovered this blog. She’s read some of it. I don’t know what parts.

She will likely read these words—some day. Sooner or later.

That’s good.

She’ll learn that I don’t have all the answers…but that I ask the questions.

She’ll find out the back story of some big chapters in her life.

She’ll be challenged.

That’s good.

- - -

I slide through the tube, distracting myself. I think of the singer. I think of my girls. I think of the things I wish I was doing. I think of the things I have been doing. I think of what is undone and unfinished.

Eyes closed, I slide.

The voice tells me to hold my breath.

I do.

The voice tells me to breathe again.

I do.

And I’m surrounded by noise. And I’m perfectly centered.

- - -

I don’t know if I made the right decision.

What will be will be what will be.

I’ve got this.

The Passing of Daniel Vokhgelt

I didn't know him.

This isn't an obituary. I don't have any direct connection. Besides, this obituary is beautiful.

May we all leave such a loving legacy when we depart this world.

- - -

Singularly-focused, cancer is...elegant. Tragically so. It feeds. It grows. Abnormal cells divide without control, invading. Cancer corrupts. It thrives as it destroys. It's a suicidal assassin—dying with its host. The perfect end for a perfect killer.

Cancer knows no borders, no boundaries, it respects nothing. It's a ruthless, opportunistic predator—silent and cold.

As patients we "fight" it; we "battle". Supporters nobilify our struggle, honoring us for our suffering.

Should we win our battle, we are declared "survivors".

Should we lose, we're dead.

But, do we ever really win?

How do you fight a force of nature?

- - -

I'm a survivor. Twice-over.

But, I'm still fighting cancer.

You see, I haven't won anything.

Cancer is bigger than me. It's always there. It always will be.

The soul of cancer is in me. And that is a blessing.

- - -

How do you fight something bigger than you?

One battle at a time.

- - -

Daniel did not lose his fight. He didn't lose his will. Daniel died.

The disease was too much. It was elegant, ruthless...lethal.

It did what it does.

- - -

Cancer is bigger than me. It's always there. It always will be.

Cancer is bigger than you, too.

Right now, cancer is bigger than all of us.

That must change.

In the wake of Daniel's life, the question is not: "what have we lost?"

The question is: "how will we live?"

How will you live?

Cancer is bigger than you. It's always there. It always will be.

We can change that.

What will be will be what will be.
We've got this.

Why?

Constant reader: This one is long, of necessity. It may seem to ramble, but it comes to its point, and rambling accurately reflects the space I'm in.

Significantly, this is Pelotonia week. On Saturday, more than 7,200 people will pedal to end cancer. I will be one of them.

- - -

I answered the phone. A friend spoke: "Should you be doing this?"

He was the right friend at the right time.

So, I answered, truthfully.

And it hurt.

- - -

I know. It's confusing. The last few posts seem so...contradictory.

One is heroic, inspiring. The other is...dark.

And they're fighting it out in my head.

They're both Truth. In may ways, they exist because of one another. There's no inspiration without darkness. There's no darkness without hope.

Which wolf wins?

- - -

I wrote this in July:

I made the decision. I'm in. I had reason to doubt. I cannot justify NOT doing it.
I will ride 180 miles for cancer research.
Please. Donate. Now.
    Each dollar raised goes directly to research—there is no overhead
    Each dollar will be matched, generously by Limited Brands
I will ride with the cancer community. Mindfully. Purposefully. With attitude.

It's August.

I still cannot justify NOT doing it.

But I shouldn't be riding. Just ask my friends. Several keep trying to talk me out of it.

Here's why...

- - -

When riding my fat-bike lap of the Patapsco 100, I injured myself.

Climbing up them embankment of the final river crossing, like a wildebeest on the Savannah, my knee went "oops".

"Oops" is different from "pop". "Pop" is when you tear something. "Pop" means you are done for the next six months. "Pop" is "fuck!" and "shit!" combined...it's "fushit!"

Mine went "oops".

"Oops" is "this is bad, but it could be worse." "Oops" hurts as much as "pop", but "oops" gives you hope.

Two days and two orthopedists later, the verdict was: no torn ligament, no torn meniscus, but "we don't know what you did".

One doctor suggested it was a bone bruise, caused by the joint's compression under load on that slippery slope. The other doctor suggested that I'd pulled my IT band (at the point where it wraps under the knee. Both doctors suggested I rest it for a few weeks, and see what happens.

Limbo, again.

I rested. Ten days. It got better.

Then I re-injured it.

Shit.

...

This weekend I am committed to ride 180 miles to end cancer.

Other than two, hour-long rides in the past three days, I have not been on a bicycle since July 6th.

- - -

"Should you be doing this?"

I hem and haw and mumble and nod.

- - -

Yesterday I went for a group mountain bike ride. In the middle of the ride, I lost my balance and fell off a bridge.

I never fully recovered.

Once the gyroscope lost its center, it never fully recovered...it never stopped wobbling.

- - -

"Should you be doing this?"

I hem and haw and mumble and nod.

And I lie.

And here's the truth.

I shouldn't.

And I have to.

- - -

I was warned.

My doctors told me, as I moved from chemotherapy to recover, that my metabolism would likely have changed. Permanently.

They said I would be tired.

They said that I would have difficulty losing the chemo-weight. They mentioned that "the Western diet is not your friend."

They warned me.

I've written about the fatigue. I've written about exercise (non-)recovery.

I haven't mentioned that my healing also seems compromised.

It seems that it takes longer for me to repair myself than it did prior to the chemo. Maybe it's true.

Maybe it's all in my head.

But I have a theory...

I believe that the toxicity levels of the particular chemotherapy drugs I took (Taxol, Cisplatin, and Ifosfamide) were so high that my body—at a cellular level—was fundamentally altered.

It may not be permanent, but at this stage in my recovery I see it seen in my exhaustion, befuddledness, vertigo...and healing.

I believe that a body recovering from one trauma, when faced with another, can't keep up, and healing is compromised.

It's anecdotal; I'm no scientist. But it passes the sniff test.

...

This weekend I am committed to ride 180 miles to end cancer.

Should you be doing this?

- - -

My mind's a mess. I wrote about it in some detail.

...but there's more.

Isn't there always?

It's Pelotonia week. It brings back memories...

- - -

I've ridden in each Pelotonia.

After the first life-altering year, each subsequent edition has brought something new, and wonderful. It's been the focus of every summer.

I've ridden it strong, as an heroic cancer survivor, finishing among the first in Athens.

But one year I only rode half. And I've regretted it ever since.

In 2011 I injured myself days before Pelotonia. I had torn my calf muscle, partly off the bone. It was a serious injury. I rode anyway.

I then spent the winter with a cast on my leg.

That was a difficult winter, and not because of the injury. My marriage dissolved, and in June I separated from my spouse of 14 years.

Injury, life-trauma. Not a lot of training happened leading into 2012. So, I planned to not ride in 2012. I volunteered.

And then I rode.I was at the opening ceremonies for my volunteer gig (helping with bike repairs and setup).

Overwhelmed, I was. The energy. The purpose. The joy. The pain.

In ten minutes, I called my friend: "Talk me out of riding."

"Um, yeah. You shouldn't ride."

"Right, I shouldn't ride."

Click

In ten minutes, I called my friend: "I just registered."

"Of course you did."

- - -

I've ridden it strong, finishing among the first to cross the line in Athens...

2012 was different. I rode on a single-speed. I paced myself. I rode with people I'd just met. It was fun.

But I didn't ride the second day. I did not ride 180.

And I've regretted it ever since.

...

I clanged the cowbell and cheered and jeered and showed my support. But every cell of me screamed that I should have been riding. I could walk. I could ride. And not riding was letting them down.

I don't know who them was. But I've since learned.

And them is driving me today.

Which wolf wins?
The one that you feed.

- - -

We all have our demons.

I've been facing mine.

And what I've seen haunts me. What I've learned pains me.

Them. Is. Me.

I'm a saboteur.

I am the architect of my own defeats.

I am mine own executioner. And I have been for time immemorial.

(I cannot express the "why" in this moment; someday I will.)

It's fashionable to say: "I fear success."

But the insidious truth is: I fear failure.

My fear paralyzes me, sending me into self-destructive spirals from which I don't recover.

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?

Countless times. I've positioned myself for success. Countless times, I've shied at the last moment, hiding. It's one thing for your ambitions to exceed your reality. It's quite another to dream the dream, and then never make the effort.

That's cowardice.

I'm a coward.

And I hate me.

...

Disappointment follows in my wake as I cross the dark, fear-filled waters of my failures.

I've let so many people down. People who have loved, trusted, and supported me.

And I hate that.

And I hate me.

The wolf howls, triumphantly.

...

People are boring. It's their contradictions that are interesting. We are the sum of our contradictions.

That statement is the lens through which I view the world. Nothing is more fascinating to me than observing the way people realize their lives. None of us are what we seem. And our contradictions are the keys to truly seeing us for whom we are.

...

I'm a coward.
But I've written and lived this:

I fear. I fear the unknown before me.
I fear the fall.
But I've leapt.
And I hope to fly.
And to be thrilled by the grace of flight.

I'm a failure.
But I've nurtured them:

I'm a coward.
But I've lived this:

What will be will be what will be.
I've got this.

I'm a failure.
But I've survived cancer.
   ...Twice.

I'm a coward.
But I'm writing this blog.

I'm a failure.
But you are reading this.

...

Them. Is. Me.

Which wolf wins?

We are the sum of our contradictions.

Should you be doing this?

I shouldn't...And I have to.

- - -

I was watching Sherlock. Moriarty said something that stopped me dead:

Pain, heartbreak, love, death, it's all good.
You always feel it...you don't have to fear it.

It made me think of Looker, John Looker.

In his second decade fighting cancer, he's made a decision I hope never to have to make. He decided to stop treatment.

Let that sink in...

He decided to stop treatment.

Quality of life is more important than quantity of live. He wants to live.

For John, it's not a question of whether, but of when.

And of which.

Multiple cancers are eating away at him.

He's riding.

I asked him if he wanted to ride a tandem on Day 2. He demurred. He said he wanted to do both days on his bike.

I get it.

And I'm humbled.

He is one reason why I feel like a whiner...

He's a super man. A Superman. And I want to be like him...

Yet...

I know his secret.

Let me re-phrase that. I know his secret.

He fights the same battle I do. Differently. But it is the same. 

It's a continual fight. Every day it's a fight...So, for the rest of your life, you're stuck with that shadowy figure...always, always, coming at you. Always coming at you...

And inside he is a mess. A hot mess. A swirling morass of twisted emotion, conflict, pain, fear.

So, really, I am like him.

John finds hope and inspiration in you. And me. And in this event.

And he rides.

Until he can't.

He found something that matters. In Pelotonia he found joy. He grasped it. He clings to it, digging his nails, white-knuckled, with hot tears and gasping breath. He holds it.

And it holds him.

And it is beautiful.

He's been through hells that I cannot imagine. And he knows what's coming.

And sometimes he's at peace. Other times he's devastated. And every moment of every day he slides along the spectrum in-between.

But he has hope. And so, he rides.

If not us, who?
If not now, when?

So, what's my excuse?

Pain, heartbreak, love, death, it's all good.
You always feel it...you don't have to fear it.

- - -

Should you be doing this?

I shouldn't...And I have to.

Fewer than 400 cancer survivors are riding Pelotonia.

I'm one of them. I am going to ride.

I will ride with the cancer community. Mindfully. Purposefully. With attitude.

There's a special magic in Pelotonia. It makes real these words :

• Cancer breeds hope, just as it nurtures death.
• Cancer inspires; the good become great.
• Cancer brings light, and love, and beauty, though it is a challenge to see it.

 ...

I've been weighed and measured; I've been found wanting.

I ride because I must.

Let's do this...together.

What will be will be what will be.We've got this.

 - - -


 Postscript

There are so many stories. So many more stories to tell:

• The Pelotonia rider who learned of a genetic predisposition for breast and ovarian cancer—a woman who lost half her family to cancer—who is now a survivor of that damnable (and inevitable?) breast cancer.
• The Pelotonia friend—a man who donated thousands to support a young rider who had been riding in memory of his young sister—who just learned that his father is in Stage III.
• Jessica, the young, cancer-fighting superbabe who—despite her pain—brings joy to everyone she meets.
• The readers of this blog who send me notes, sharing their stories with me.

In this space I cannot tell them all.

But I can tell my tale, as honestly as possible.

We are the sum of our contradictions. I hope by shedding light into mine, someone, somewhere finds a little truth and a little comfort, knowing that they are not alone.

My Thoughts on "The Lance Armstrong Situation"

A lot has been written in response to "The Lance Armstrong Situation". I've read more than 20,000 words on the subject—in the past week.

Too many words.

Too many emotions.

My thoughts?

One sentence: "I don't care if Lance Armstrong doped."

 ++++++++++

"Evolution" (extended remix)

I used to think:

• Lance Armstrong is a transcendent athlete.
• Lance Armstrong doesn't need to dope.
• Lance Armstrong wouldn't dope.

Then I thought:

• Lance Armstrong didn't dope.

Recently I thought:

• I don't care that Lance Armstrong doped.
• I don't care why Lance Armstrong doped.

I now think:

• I don't care if Lance Armstrong doped.

 ++++++++++

"Cycling" (extended remix deux)

Cycling is sport; it's not life. It governs itself—badly, mind you—and it exists on its own terms.

Times change. Standards evolve. Tomorrow's peloton will be different from yesterday's or today's. Chapeau to those who seek to change the sport for the better. Fight the good fight!

But, please remember: Coppi doped. Merckx doped. Simpson died.

They remain champions.

So does Lance.

I don't care if Lance Armstrong doped.

 ++++++++++

"Cancer" (extended remix finale)

Have you ever sat in a meeting when someone—seeking to provide perspective—chimes the old refrain: "we're not curing cancer, here!"

Exactly.

Cycling is sport. Doping, and the conspiratorial morass it engenders, is ugly.

It's not curing cancer.

You can't separate Lance Armstrong from cancer. For many, he's the Platonic ideal of The Survivor.

He became a symbol of hope.

That remains.

I don't care if Lance Armstrong doped.

++++++++++

(250 words, above.)

Musings on Why I Shave (Or, Jens Voigt Is a Hard Man )

2010 Paris-Nice, Stage 3: Jens Voigt takes the yellow jersey, symbolizing his lead in this important early-season test...

Meh.

Jens Voigt is happy in yellow⇒

Stage 3, 2010 Paris-Nice: Jens Voigt, victim of a devastating, stomach-churning, oh-my-god-how-did-he-survive-that crash in the 2009 Tour de France, takes the yellow jersey—symbolizing his lead in this important early-season test—completing his return to professional racing.

Wow!

Hard Men

Sure, cyclists look like peacocks in their brightly-colored, skin-tight clothing. Yes, they shave their legs.

But if you ever thought that cyclists were wimps, consider Jens.

Ouch ⇒

Last July he face-planted on a descent during The Tour. He skidded on his nose and cheek at more than 40 mph. He lost consciousness for several minutes as rescuers stabilized him, waiting for an emergency helicopter.

Today, he is moving and shaking up the peloton at the ripe age of 38. He did not win Paris-Nice, but he served notice that he will be in the mix, supporting Andy Schlek in the 2010 tour.

Vinnie Jones, ya got nuthin'!

Road Rash

Recently, I was asked : "why do cyclists shave their legs?"

I cannot answer for others; but for me, I shave because of road rash.

Crashing is a part of your life as a cyclist. You will fall. Accept it.

I'm sure the umbrella had nothing to do with it...⇒

In 2009 I had two significant crashes. The first was in March. It tore the skin from a 6-in. x 6-in. patch on my right hip. A year later, my hip is still purple from the scar. The second was in June. It sliced a 4-in. x 4-in hole into my left hip. A year later? Not-so purple.

The difference? Shaving.

Shaving

My legs were fabulously furry when I crashed in March. It was too early in the season, I told myself.

After a month of pulling bandages off that road rash, I was ready to shave. The wound hurt; the healing was excruciating. And the effing tape was a tear-jerker (literally!).

So, I discovered the wonders of Nair for Men.

In a future post I will regale you with the wonders of "shaving"⇒

Fast-forward.

When I crashed in June, my legs were sleek, smooth, and well-moisturized. When I hit the deck, I slid. No hair gripped the road. And when it came time to bandage and recover, everything was easier. I healed faster, and there was less scarring.

Thus, the question is answered:

• It's not for looks.
• It's not for aerodynamics.
• It's not fetishistic.

I shave to save my skin!

Getting in Touch with My Inner Granny

34 x 23
That's the new gear for me
When in my seat and on a climb
My granny really is divine!

NOT my grandmother... ⇒

I never thought I would write these words: "I ♥ my granny! Really, I do!"

The first morning of Daylight Savings Time dawned cold, wet, and dark. 0700 seemed awfully early when I met Mark the Centurian for a ride through bucolic western Howard County.

Here's the map of my Home - Tridelphia Mill - Howard Road loop.

Granted, it's the beginning of the season. but I still cannot get used to my appalling early-season form! Last week, I was "That Guy" on the Sunday group ride. This week I was struggling to survive up hills that I flew up just a few short months ago!

Discipline Shattered

Last year was a breakthrough year for my riding. One of the tenets I rode with was: "Thou shalt not use your granny gear." Stubbornness, pride, and athletic ego would not let me use that gear, except for emergencies (such as a heart rate in excess of 200, pitches exceeding 20°, or seizures).

So, what happens on my second ride this year? That's right, my discipline shattered. With a crushed ego, I discovered the joys of my granny.

Thar's sufferin' in them thar hills!

Gear Ratios, Schmear Ratios

The pros ride 53 x 11. My highest gear is 50 x 11. There's a reason why they are pros.

A gear so famous they named a coffee after it...  ⇒

All winter I had been on trainers, rollers, and spin bikes. I focused on high cadence riding; I was always above 90 rpm. It is comfortable, and I am able to find a groove for my pedal stroke.

The real world is different. It has topography.

At this point in the season, hills are a challenge (and I mean hills, not mountains, which are altogether different). Maintaining my cadence up a half-mile hill requires the right gearing. More importantly, it requires a level of fitness I am struggling to rediscover.

I have a suitcase of courage. I am lacking a rich vein of form.

Let's face it, I am built like Jan Ullrich. I'm neither a greyhound like Lance nor a gazelle like Contador. I have large thighs and an arse you could use as a sideboard during a formal dinner. (No, really, it's HUGE!)

Get behind the behind! ⇒

The point here (other than self-deprecation and a stylistic reliance on parentheticals) is that I resemble Ullrich when climbing. I look like a drunken organ-grinder, churning out dirge after dirge to unwelcoming Parisian pedestrians.

But I'm working on it. I want to ride more like Lance and Alberto the Alien, so I need to use my full range of gears. To ride a cadence-driven style means that I must un-stubborn myself, swallow my pride, suppress my ego, and get on with it!

New Rules Apply

I hereby replace my previous rule about my granny gear with the following: "Thou shalt ride intelligently."

Let's face it, I'm 41; and I'm not getting any younger. To get better I need to ride smarter. I need to ride with discipline, based on intelligence, not ego.

Cycling requires far more mental strength than observers know. It takes commitment to get out before dawn on a cold, wet morning. It takes tenacity to keep riding after the lactic acid has burned your thighs to cinders. It takes determination to do it week in, week out.


"Ride intelligently."

I'll give it a go; we'll see how far it takes me.

Belgian Points

I'm on the phone with my LBS, inquiring about the evening's group ride.

It was an on-again, off-again rainy day. Being new to the group, I did not know what conditions they would ride in (or avoid).

The LBS guy--older, gruffer, no-nonsense, wise-ass--said that they would hold off on a decision until 5:00 (for the 5:30 ride). "But we don't want to go out in the nasty stuff. After all, we're not collecting Belgian Points here."

"Belgian Points"

It is the perfect way to describe the weather I love to ride in most. Rainy. Cold. No one else on the road. you can ride all day and see no other riders, even on frequently-trafficked routes.

Add a little road grime and mud, the wet scent of manure, and the sound of the water cascading off your wheels, and it is a little slice of heaven!