Can someone please explain to me what the fuck a "Power house" is? I generally associate this term with a prolific basketball team or someone who can easily smite a peleton in the final 20km of a cycling monument. I do not understand this term in reference to inanimate objects, least of which being a crappy "tri" bike. And yet I am constantly presented with these aggravating and disturbing situations at work.
Today some guy came in and said he was having an issue with the front shifting on his TT bike. Of course he didn't call his bike a "TT bike" but said something along the lines of "triathlon," "race," and "bicycle." I chose to ignore this part of the conversation; "shifting problem" was all I needed to hear. Then he said something about not being able to maintain his top-end speed. I also ignored this comment because had I thought too much about it, my head would have exploded. But to my dismay he continued talking and even pointed to his "power house" the lower half of the bike in the general area of the crankset and bottom bracket shell. He prefaced his next question by telling me that he checked his brakes and wheels to make sure they weren't rubbing and also that the shifting was fine. The next words that came out of his mouth were "Everything seems fine, but I'm still having trouble keeping my top-end speed. Do you think there's something wrong in the power house?" [points to the bb assembly]. Humoring him, I checked to make sure the bb was spinning smoothly and there weren't any binding or loosening issues. I even checked his brakes and wheels to make sure they were in decent working order. There was nothing wrong with the bike, but he kept mentioning this mysterious "power house" and pointing to his bike. Within 3 minutes, I ran out of bullshit to check on his bike and words to say to make this Tri-dork leave my shop. All I could do was make a face and admit "defeat." I told him that "It was something I couldn't fix" but didn't go as far as telling him that by "it" I meant the absurd level of ineptitude for cycling and general athleticism that I was currently present with. At the end of our conversation, he finally gave in and took his bike back, adding that it was "probably just his legs because he hasn't been on the bike in months." I subsequently smashed my fingers in the vise to keep me from choking this guy out.
"Power house" could possibly be a pseudonym for "legs" and a horrible stroke could have cause this poor miscommunication, but I'd say that's meeting this customer more than half way.
Oh, and if you're wondering why he said his shifting was fine but still brought his bike in for shifting issues, it's because his left bar-con wasn't clicking like his right one and he is "100% sure that the left shifter was indexed and not a friction shifter." And yes, he was completely wrong.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
This Idiot Reviews: EAS Catapult
Last Sunday at the Carl Dolan Memorial, I sprinted for a prime that nobody contested. Like an idiot, I went all out for it, not even knowing what it was. As it turns out, I won some EAS nutritional supplements. I got a box of EAS Myoplex Lite, which is a post-ride protein bar that tastes like a cinnamon rice krispie covered in frosting, and a 23-oz. bottle of EAS Catapult: Pre-Race Energy Fuel, that does not taste nearly as yummy. I have chosen to a do review on the latter product because I have nothing interesting to say about a protein bar that tastes like candy (other than mmmmMMMMMMmmmmm!).
The Packaging
This drink mix came in pretty standard form, although now after trying the stuff I would have expected it to be shaped like a lightning bolt or giant exclamation point. Interestingly enough, before I could even access the mix I had to fight my way through two thick plastic-wrapped seals keeping the lid secure and another paper seal under the lid. Having broken into the Fort Knox of sports drinks, I had a slight inkling that I might be getting in over my head so I read the label. It reads like this:
Catapult: Pre-Race Energy Fuel
-Intensify Workouts
-Enhance Performance
-Delay Onset of Muscle Fatigue
and here's the abridged version of what's on the back:
Mix with water. Drink before workout. Do not take late in the day or exceed two doses within 24hrs and allow at least 4hrs between doses. Not for use by individuals under 18 or those even remotely considering pregnancy. Do not use if you have heart disease, angina, arrhythmia, high blood pressure or other cardiovascular disease, recurrent headaches, bleeding disorder, depression or other psychiatric condition, difficulty urinating, prostate enlargement, or seizure disorder. Don't take this shit with any other stimulants. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA
"Holy shit," I said as I poured myself a glass.
The Taste
Against my better judgment, I took the recommended dose. (And might I say that if a particular sports supplements refers to its servings as "doses" you should probably read the label very carefully.) The drink tasted like Lysol mixed in with crushed caffeine pills. Lemon-Lime my ass. I had to chug the rest and chase it with water to get the taste out of my mouth.
The Effects
I won't say that I could really feel the effects of the drink. I did have a pretty decent ride, but that could have been from a number of factors: not being drunk, having a tailwind on the W&OD, eating properly, etc. So the whole "less fatigue" thing will have to be reevaluated in subsequent trials. As far as adding to the intensity of my workout, I'd have to say that that didn't change much either. It was a pretty typical evening at the Thursday night Hains Point sprints. I didn't feel any better or worse than I usually do. I did notice how there were some ignorant jackasses riding in the pack who had no idea what was going on around them. Despite this (and a few unnecessarily close calls), I can't say that I had a heighten sense of awareness due to the drink. Post-ride, I would say the effects were fatigue and extreme hunger, or in other words "how I usually feel after I ride." And I'll chalk up the strange tingling sensation in my heart to a completely random anomaly.
Conclusion
If you're looking for a drink mix that tastes like you just puréed a handful of pills and squeezed the tiniest sliver of lemon over it, this drink is for you. If you're looking for a substitute for your crack addiction, this drink will do that as well. But if you're an average idiot cyclist, I would have to say that this drink did not improve or detract from the quality of my workout. Granted, I've only used this product once, so we'll have to see how well it works in the long term. And in the worst case scenario, I'll mix the powder into a handle of Aristocrat vodka and sell it to college students as Idiot's Magical Study Elixir.
The Packaging
This drink mix came in pretty standard form, although now after trying the stuff I would have expected it to be shaped like a lightning bolt or giant exclamation point. Interestingly enough, before I could even access the mix I had to fight my way through two thick plastic-wrapped seals keeping the lid secure and another paper seal under the lid. Having broken into the Fort Knox of sports drinks, I had a slight inkling that I might be getting in over my head so I read the label. It reads like this:
Catapult: Pre-Race Energy Fuel
-Intensify Workouts
-Enhance Performance
-Delay Onset of Muscle Fatigue
and here's the abridged version of what's on the back:
Mix with water. Drink before workout. Do not take late in the day or exceed two doses within 24hrs and allow at least 4hrs between doses. Not for use by individuals under 18 or those even remotely considering pregnancy. Do not use if you have heart disease, angina, arrhythmia, high blood pressure or other cardiovascular disease, recurrent headaches, bleeding disorder, depression or other psychiatric condition, difficulty urinating, prostate enlargement, or seizure disorder. Don't take this shit with any other stimulants. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA
"Holy shit," I said as I poured myself a glass.
The Taste
Against my better judgment, I took the recommended dose. (And might I say that if a particular sports supplements refers to its servings as "doses" you should probably read the label very carefully.) The drink tasted like Lysol mixed in with crushed caffeine pills. Lemon-Lime my ass. I had to chug the rest and chase it with water to get the taste out of my mouth.
The Effects
I won't say that I could really feel the effects of the drink. I did have a pretty decent ride, but that could have been from a number of factors: not being drunk, having a tailwind on the W&OD, eating properly, etc. So the whole "less fatigue" thing will have to be reevaluated in subsequent trials. As far as adding to the intensity of my workout, I'd have to say that that didn't change much either. It was a pretty typical evening at the Thursday night Hains Point sprints. I didn't feel any better or worse than I usually do. I did notice how there were some ignorant jackasses riding in the pack who had no idea what was going on around them. Despite this (and a few unnecessarily close calls), I can't say that I had a heighten sense of awareness due to the drink. Post-ride, I would say the effects were fatigue and extreme hunger, or in other words "how I usually feel after I ride." And I'll chalk up the strange tingling sensation in my heart to a completely random anomaly.
Conclusion
If you're looking for a drink mix that tastes like you just puréed a handful of pills and squeezed the tiniest sliver of lemon over it, this drink is for you. If you're looking for a substitute for your crack addiction, this drink will do that as well. But if you're an average idiot cyclist, I would have to say that this drink did not improve or detract from the quality of my workout. Granted, I've only used this product once, so we'll have to see how well it works in the long term. And in the worst case scenario, I'll mix the powder into a handle of Aristocrat vodka and sell it to college students as Idiot's Magical Study Elixir.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Quickie
As much as I like riding bikes, I hate doing quick bike rides. From a training standpoint, the "quickie" makes a lot of sense as an efficient way to meet a certain objective (recovery, intervals, etc.). It also make a lot of practical sense for those that don't have the luxury of going on longer rides due to work and family (all other reasons are cop outs). But despite all these logical explanations for going out for a quick spin, I will never enjoy the Quickie.
The Quickie is a total boner kill. It takes all the fun away from the simple act of riding a bike and is a waste of chamois cream and lube. I'm not saying that riding with a certain objective can't be fun. It's only when the objective is a simple time limitation that all the fun of riding goes erm... soft. Without an epic ride, how is a cyclist supposed to daydream about racing in the Tour of Flanders or climbing in the Pyrenees? How are you supposed to develop those oh-so-pro tan lines, including the enviable raccoon eyes from wearing sunglasses too long? Sure, you could take 'shrooms before you ride and "daydream" about practically anything. And you could substitute your sunscreen for tanning oil, (or in my case, Crisco) to fast track that super tan. But I say that's no substitute for spending 3+ hours in the saddle.
Unlike the Quickie, the focus of the longer ride is to take pleasure in the experience of riding. Enjoy the warm-up, take the time to draw the blood into your legs and tempt yourself with a few quick stomps out of the saddle. Then kick it up a notch to the point where you're going fast but not going to explode too quickly. Maybe you take an intermission and stop for a snack (I usually do). Then you come up to your favorite climb or your own personal sprint circuit and just let loose. Finally, cool yourself down, get some water, and ride home with a giant smile on your face knowing that you've had an excellent ride. Whether you're doing intervals, riding tempo, or just out enjoying the outdoors, it's all about loving the bike ride, not putting limitations on it.
[Ed. - I totally got blue-balled on my past two rides, hence this post. Also, it's late, hence the retarded nature of this post. Long ride tomorrow. Laterzzzzzzz]
The Quickie is a total boner kill. It takes all the fun away from the simple act of riding a bike and is a waste of chamois cream and lube. I'm not saying that riding with a certain objective can't be fun. It's only when the objective is a simple time limitation that all the fun of riding goes erm... soft. Without an epic ride, how is a cyclist supposed to daydream about racing in the Tour of Flanders or climbing in the Pyrenees? How are you supposed to develop those oh-so-pro tan lines, including the enviable raccoon eyes from wearing sunglasses too long? Sure, you could take 'shrooms before you ride and "daydream" about practically anything. And you could substitute your sunscreen for tanning oil, (or in my case, Crisco) to fast track that super tan. But I say that's no substitute for spending 3+ hours in the saddle.
Unlike the Quickie, the focus of the longer ride is to take pleasure in the experience of riding. Enjoy the warm-up, take the time to draw the blood into your legs and tempt yourself with a few quick stomps out of the saddle. Then kick it up a notch to the point where you're going fast but not going to explode too quickly. Maybe you take an intermission and stop for a snack (I usually do). Then you come up to your favorite climb or your own personal sprint circuit and just let loose. Finally, cool yourself down, get some water, and ride home with a giant smile on your face knowing that you've had an excellent ride. Whether you're doing intervals, riding tempo, or just out enjoying the outdoors, it's all about loving the bike ride, not putting limitations on it.
[Ed. - I totally got blue-balled on my past two rides, hence this post. Also, it's late, hence the retarded nature of this post. Long ride tomorrow. Laterzzzzzzz]
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Bridging the Gap: Can't
I can't blog right now. Catching up on Sea Otter tech coverage.
Check this out:
Wonder why this Cane Creek weighs approximately half the weight of a standard headset?
It's because it has half the bearings! DUH!
Check this out:
Wonder why this Cane Creek weighs approximately half the weight of a standard headset?
It's because it has half the bearings! DUH!
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Let There Be Grease
Remember that shower scene in Casio Royale when Vesper says to Bond "It's like there's blood on my hands. And [yada yada yada] I can't get it off." Then Bond puts her hand in his mouth and says something along the lines of "There. They're clean. Can we stop sitting on the shower floor in our million dollar clothes now?" I've watched this movie a million times now and have come to the realization that if you're James Bond and want to clean an imaginary substance off a Standard Bond Girl's hands, what's better than using your mouth? A mouth in all other circumstances is pretty much useless.
I don't even bother trying to clean my hands with my mouth, unless there's barbeque sauce on them. I especially do not use my mouth now that we're "in season" at the bike shop. This is because my hands are always filthy with brake dust, chain lube, road grit, etc. I used just about every scrubbing product available to mechanic-kind; PolyScrub, GoJo, and even the lesser known Mofo Scrub (with it's catchy slogan: "It's a mofuggin' scrub, mofo!"). The problem is not only that I get my hands dirty when I work, it's that I get used to my hands being dirty.
When you get used to seeing your hands blacker than Robert Downey Jr. in Tropic Thunder, your sense of what's clean and not clean becomes severely impaired. It starts with thinking "Oh my hands are kind of dirty, but that french fry looks really good." Then it progress to the point where you can't tell if the grease on your hands is from the bottom bracket you just overhauled or the El Pollo Rico you just ate with your bare hands. And while you could hardly give a damn about what other people think about your general hygiene, you find yourself having trouble coming back to civilization after a day of wrenching. At the end of the day all you can think about is going home, possibly riding your bike, sleep, and beer. Things like washing your hands and changing your clothes are just obstacles that get in the way. So you throw on a fresh shirt and maybe a different pair of pants, but forget to avoid coming within 3 feet of a bicycle (an impossible feat in a bike shop). And because you didn't strip down naked outside of the shop, you inadvertently get grease and dirt all over your fresh duds. Do this enough times and you'll ruin your entire wardrobe. Washing your hands tends to be an outrageous practice in futility. Having gotten "comfortable" with your dirty hands all day at the shop, any amount of grease that you can remove at close is nothing short of a goddamn miracle. So you stand at the basement sink scrubbing your hands raw for 5 minutes. You take the time to get the tips and in between your fingers, your wrists, and all the way up your forearms to your elbows. Five minutes should be enough time to get all that grime off shouldn't it? Erroneous! No matter what you do to your hands, the damage has already been done. They are permanently dyed a dingy grey-black and will remain that way until you avoid touching bicycles for a long enough period that the stained skins cells eventually die and come off. And to add insult to injury, the work you did to clean your hands will never be good enough as you realize soon after you've dried your hands and left the shop that you missed at least two giant spots of grease on your arms, walked by six bicycles on your way out, gotten grease on your fresh clothes, and look exactly the same as you did before you attempted to "clean" yourself. Fuck...
I don't even bother trying to clean my hands with my mouth, unless there's barbeque sauce on them. I especially do not use my mouth now that we're "in season" at the bike shop. This is because my hands are always filthy with brake dust, chain lube, road grit, etc. I used just about every scrubbing product available to mechanic-kind; PolyScrub, GoJo, and even the lesser known Mofo Scrub (with it's catchy slogan: "It's a mofuggin' scrub, mofo!"). The problem is not only that I get my hands dirty when I work, it's that I get used to my hands being dirty.
When you get used to seeing your hands blacker than Robert Downey Jr. in Tropic Thunder, your sense of what's clean and not clean becomes severely impaired. It starts with thinking "Oh my hands are kind of dirty, but that french fry looks really good." Then it progress to the point where you can't tell if the grease on your hands is from the bottom bracket you just overhauled or the El Pollo Rico you just ate with your bare hands. And while you could hardly give a damn about what other people think about your general hygiene, you find yourself having trouble coming back to civilization after a day of wrenching. At the end of the day all you can think about is going home, possibly riding your bike, sleep, and beer. Things like washing your hands and changing your clothes are just obstacles that get in the way. So you throw on a fresh shirt and maybe a different pair of pants, but forget to avoid coming within 3 feet of a bicycle (an impossible feat in a bike shop). And because you didn't strip down naked outside of the shop, you inadvertently get grease and dirt all over your fresh duds. Do this enough times and you'll ruin your entire wardrobe. Washing your hands tends to be an outrageous practice in futility. Having gotten "comfortable" with your dirty hands all day at the shop, any amount of grease that you can remove at close is nothing short of a goddamn miracle. So you stand at the basement sink scrubbing your hands raw for 5 minutes. You take the time to get the tips and in between your fingers, your wrists, and all the way up your forearms to your elbows. Five minutes should be enough time to get all that grime off shouldn't it? Erroneous! No matter what you do to your hands, the damage has already been done. They are permanently dyed a dingy grey-black and will remain that way until you avoid touching bicycles for a long enough period that the stained skins cells eventually die and come off. And to add insult to injury, the work you did to clean your hands will never be good enough as you realize soon after you've dried your hands and left the shop that you missed at least two giant spots of grease on your arms, walked by six bicycles on your way out, gotten grease on your fresh clothes, and look exactly the same as you did before you attempted to "clean" yourself. Fuck...
Friday, April 17, 2009
Young At Heart
My heart did 206bpm today. Somewhere between beating up nerds and being perpetually put in detention, I learned in middle school that your max heart rate should be your 220 minus your age. That puts my max-bpm at -14. If you're wondering how I'm still alive, I've got two words for you: Ginkgo Biloba. And I have a letter for you too: F (better known as my grade in elementary math). Now I'm not usually one for objectively analyzing performance. I either make the bike go fast or it weighs too much, isn't aero enough, or I'm drunk. I rode without a computer all of last season (which is probably why I sucked so much), but recently added a bit of dankness to the race rig and can now geek out everytime I ride.
This evening's ride took me to Hains Point. Tacking on a few miles beforehand in the commute, I was feeling a bit giddy getting out there and mixing it up with a packed crowd that included the likes of Big Red, Super Dave, and Colgate B. The thing I like most about riding at The Point is that I'm pretty much guaranteed to blow my wad and today was no exception. After a couple laps of similar intensity, I limped home with a bit of a headache and feeling a little queasy. I made it all the way to Theodore Roosevelt Island before I had to pull over and chill out for a bit. I was totally going to yak so I just took my time, breathing deeply and trying not to remember what I ate for lunch (a Chipotle burrito with everything). I burped a little and felt better but still a little green. As I was pitifully slouched over my bike, Big Red and his wife, Runner Blondie, rode by. "You gonna puke man?" he asks. I had a very ch'i-centering moment and told myself "Ok, you Idiot. Suck it up and ride the damn bike home THEN puke." I clipped in, caught up with the duo and made it home in one piece after stopping my 7-Eleven for a Cherry Dr. Pepper. Huzzah for not puking!
This evening's ride took me to Hains Point. Tacking on a few miles beforehand in the commute, I was feeling a bit giddy getting out there and mixing it up with a packed crowd that included the likes of Big Red, Super Dave, and Colgate B. The thing I like most about riding at The Point is that I'm pretty much guaranteed to blow my wad and today was no exception. After a couple laps of similar intensity, I limped home with a bit of a headache and feeling a little queasy. I made it all the way to Theodore Roosevelt Island before I had to pull over and chill out for a bit. I was totally going to yak so I just took my time, breathing deeply and trying not to remember what I ate for lunch (a Chipotle burrito with everything). I burped a little and felt better but still a little green. As I was pitifully slouched over my bike, Big Red and his wife, Runner Blondie, rode by. "You gonna puke man?" he asks. I had a very ch'i-centering moment and told myself "Ok, you Idiot. Suck it up and ride the damn bike home THEN puke." I clipped in, caught up with the duo and made it home in one piece after stopping my 7-Eleven for a Cherry Dr. Pepper. Huzzah for not puking!
Friday, April 10, 2009
Bridging the Gap: The Hangover Post
I am hungover...
A "friend" and I nearly killed a bottle of scotch by ourselves last night. What seemed like a great idea has now become the spins, a killer headache, and nausea. Other things that make me want to puke are two-minute intervals at full intensity, which I did yesterday as well. I don't think I'm training for anything. I just thought it'd fun to ride until I could feel my teeth trembling and face go numb, like when I eat a handful of chili peppers in every bite of my Laotian uncle's papaya salad. So being dehydrate and drunk last night have left me in shambles and I'm struggling a bit to string together cohesive sentences without adding "Ow. Fuck. My head." or simply just falling back to sleep. But here's what I got:
Roubaix Tech:
It's that time of year again. The Paris-Roubaix Tech machine is gaining momentum and racers are already testing out their crazy shit in preparation for the Queen of the Classics.
Lance:
He's in trouble again. Showering!? What was he thinking? Now he can't win the Tour de France that he said he wouldn't but is still hyped up by the media to win. I'm honestly not that interested in the Tour this year. The Giro sounds more interesting but I wonder if the French know that everyone hates them? Someone should give them a heads up.
Simple Fixes:
I like fixing things and that doesn't just apply to bikes. I enjoy the processes and critical thinking required to troubleshoot a problem then replace/repair it. It might sound odd, but I don't like overly simple fixes. Changing a light bulb is about the simplest "repair"-type thing that I'll do. But twice now I've gone to replace a light bulb and all I've had to do was jiggle the old bulb around and make sure it was securely mounted in its socket (or wiring harness in my car). The bulbs worked fine and what was supposed to be a simple fix became an even simpler shake, tap, and turn. What a total letdown. I had to rub my face on a greasy chain just to feel better about myself.
That's all I got right now. Gotta go to ice my head before I go to work.
Oh and be warned: the W&OD is lousy with aerobars now that the weather's getting nicer.
A "friend" and I nearly killed a bottle of scotch by ourselves last night. What seemed like a great idea has now become the spins, a killer headache, and nausea. Other things that make me want to puke are two-minute intervals at full intensity, which I did yesterday as well. I don't think I'm training for anything. I just thought it'd fun to ride until I could feel my teeth trembling and face go numb, like when I eat a handful of chili peppers in every bite of my Laotian uncle's papaya salad. So being dehydrate and drunk last night have left me in shambles and I'm struggling a bit to string together cohesive sentences without adding "Ow. Fuck. My head." or simply just falling back to sleep. But here's what I got:
Roubaix Tech:
It's that time of year again. The Paris-Roubaix Tech machine is gaining momentum and racers are already testing out their crazy shit in preparation for the Queen of the Classics.
Lance:
He's in trouble again. Showering!? What was he thinking? Now he can't win the Tour de France that he said he wouldn't but is still hyped up by the media to win. I'm honestly not that interested in the Tour this year. The Giro sounds more interesting but I wonder if the French know that everyone hates them? Someone should give them a heads up.
Simple Fixes:
I like fixing things and that doesn't just apply to bikes. I enjoy the processes and critical thinking required to troubleshoot a problem then replace/repair it. It might sound odd, but I don't like overly simple fixes. Changing a light bulb is about the simplest "repair"-type thing that I'll do. But twice now I've gone to replace a light bulb and all I've had to do was jiggle the old bulb around and make sure it was securely mounted in its socket (or wiring harness in my car). The bulbs worked fine and what was supposed to be a simple fix became an even simpler shake, tap, and turn. What a total letdown. I had to rub my face on a greasy chain just to feel better about myself.
That's all I got right now. Gotta go to ice my head before I go to work.
Oh and be warned: the W&OD is lousy with aerobars now that the weather's getting nicer.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Dorkimus Maximus
This evening post is brought to you by BikeRadar, a UK cycling website celebrating April Fool's with this article.
Ah, yes. Bicycle humor. Aside from horrible tan lines, shaved legs, emaciated torsos, and a penchant for pain, it is what sets us aside from other non-cyclists. We can talk about frame geometries and training techniques in the most serious of tones. But when we've had one too many quarter-beers after a long, dehydrating, 6-hour day in the saddle, we amuse ourselves with bike humor in a phenomenon known as "Geeking out." A good geek out consists of a few factors:
Obscurity.
To prove that we're cyclists, we must always talk about things that other non-cyclists would have no idea about. Avoid commentary on subjects that might be even remotely understandable to your average Joe. Frame materials, for example, can be easily be boiled down for normal people into "Metal heavy; Carbon fiber good." Instead try topics like my senior thesis, "The Effects of Bar Tape on Lateral Rigidity and Vertical Compliance." [I failed, but my professor said the paper was actually very well written, just not appropriate for a thesis on international political economy.]
Spontaneity.
After "that's what she said"-jokes, bike humor should be the next go-to for a cyclist. It can be applied nearly everywhere, not unlike chamois cream. Squeaky doors, chairs, dogs, and small children just need a good coating in Tri-Flow or PolyLube 1000. When you beat a person up a flight of stairs, always make a comment about how they should've switched their shoes over to compact gearing or how you've been climbing stairs in the Pyrenees since you were a toddler. Your jokes don't necessarily have to make sense. As long as you get it and that other people get that you're talking about cycling, you have achieved your goal of being a weird bike geek.
Triathletes.
I know I harp on this subject a lot in this blog, but who could resists? Aerobars, wetsuits, silly diets, and oodles of money spent on a hobbyist competition (or a competitive hobby?) are really just my way of pretending to be cool and poke fun at a sport that's even weirder and more ridiculous than my own. It's like me pretending to be the Fonz, while the triathletes are Richie. At the end of the day, we're all just stupid roles playing out in a great big shitty sitcom. (But I still hate yous guys and those stupid tri bikes yous gots. Eeeeyyy!)
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