Never Say Diet

"You can't beat the biology of blubber."   - Dr. Oz

Great.  Now there's a name for it. 

The Biology of Blubber. 

It's real too.  I know.  I've had it proven to me often enough.

My body's always taking care of me, even when I'm mean to it.  Anytime I stress it out with starvation or sleep deprivation, it pays me back with some nice, cushy, extra padding.

It's not just me.  Ask anyone who put on the Freshman 10 in college.  (Or gained 20 in the first year as a newly hatched flight attendent.)

Stress, bad food, odd hours, too little exercise.   The biology of blubber strikes again.  And again. 

So what's an XL to do?

If the XL is me?  Nothing.  No diets!  At least not since the yo-yo days of youth.  Some lessons had to be learned more than once.

It seems better to just carry around a few extra pounds rather than get all restrictive, and risk going off the deep end.  I'm long done with that cycle of losing, only to gain even more back.

So I've been a little wary of detox.  Super low-cal is usually a bad thing for reformed yo yo dieters.

But, like so many things that scare me - big drops, for example - a detox attracts me too.  And maybe, just maybe, if it's handled right, the benefits could outweigh the risk. 

Filtering out common allergens for a week or two and infusing your system with super nutrition is an alluring idea. 

We train for mountain biking here with nothing but bridges for mountains.  I trained incessantly for triathlon despite years of Atlanta-based stress and airport food. 

How far could we take our training if we were super-nourished?  Could the Cross Florida feel easy?  Might the Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run actually live up to it's name?

Popeye's always on board for super-nutrition.  I've got nothing to lose but blubber.  Just think what we have to gain. 

Hey, no guts, no glory, right?

Kale Smoothie

Publix check out.  Whole Living Magazine.  February issue.  If you miss the magazine, see 

http://www.wholeliving.com/152870/2012-whole-living-action-plan

C'mon, what have you got to lose?


Whole Living Magazine. Ohmygosh, the photos of food are fabulous. I just can't help myself from wanting whatever is on that plate, and sometimes I even want the plate!  Especially when it's one of my niece Michele's incredible ceramic pieces. If you love beautiful table presentation... Or the color blue... http://elephantceramics.blogspot.com/

Tour de Felasco, 2012: Dressed For Success

I have 2 boxes on the top shelf of the closet.  

One is labeled Winter Bike Clothes.  Like for the Tour de Felasco and Croom.  The other is Winter Clothes.  Like for trips to Syracuse or Maine.

Guess which one has the most stuff?

The predicted temps for Saturday in Alachua were a low of 27, and high of 58. Winds, north at 15.  Dry and sunny, thank goodness.

Later Popeye tells me that the prediction was right on. That it really did get up in the fifties on Saturday.  I shake my head. No, no, no, I say. That's just plain wrong. There's no way. 

The terrain at Felasco is pleasant, but not a particular challenge. A few decent hills, some roots, a bit of token sand.  Plenty of woodsy, twisty singletrack.  Several miles through huge, rolling meadows in bright, winter sunshine.

The distance is no trouble either.  Choose your own.  35 miles, 50 miles, or 100k.  There are  multiple bailout points. 

A hot lunch is provided.  Chicken soup - the perfect restorative.

Top it off with the luxury of a cushy full suspension 29r in perfect working order, and San Felasco should be cake, right?

Unless you have, well, personal issues.

How on earth do some people exercise and not sweat?  How do they breathe cold air all day long and maintain a dry nose?  (For that matter, how do some people eat so much and stay skinny?  Or have shiny, straight hair, even on humid days?)

Obviously life is not fair.

If you are one of those dry-skinned, I-love-feeling-cold, snot-free, skinny, shiny-haired folk, you might as well go read some other blog this week.  My version of San Felasco is not for you.

For those of us at the other extreme of the mucus-meter, it turns out that one way to survive Felasco is to layer up, embrace your grossness, and just keep riding.

Back at home.  Monday morning.  Laundry done.  

Just for review, I lay out the bike clothes I wore on Saturday in the 30 to 58 degree (supposedly) temps.

For those who like lists:

Padded bike shorts.

Tight wicking long sleeve underlayer.

Lightweight long sleeve shirt - with phone pocket.

Heavy long sleeve shirt over that.

Tights over the bike shorts.

Long sleeve windbreaker over the shirts.

Two pairs of socks, two pairs of gloves.

Snot rag, I mean, handy all-purpose bandanna.

Skull cap.

Camelbak Rogue, loaded with:

Wind vest - in case I get cocky and decide I can go without a jacket.

Headband - to change out for the skull cap when it gets “warm”.

Dry bandanna for the second half of the ride.

Clif bars, because sags are notorious for an enticing array of hydrogenated fats, which mess with my energy levels.  

70 oz. bladder of Gatorade - laced with protein powder to avert hunger.

Extra baggie with powdered Gatorade and protein to mix with water later. (Unknown drink mixes on long rides can be trouble.)


Since I have to truck all my stuff back upstairs to the closet this morning anyway, I stop with it in my arms, and step on the scale. 6.6 pounds. And that's clean and dry. I don’t want to think how much more it all weighed soaking wet.

Add in the 70 oz camelbak bladder, a 20 oz bottle, shoes, toe warmers, and extra snacks, and I was probably carrying about 13 extra pounds. 

I know.  What a lot to wear.  And to carry.

(Then again, I did save myself a few ounces of weight by leaving behind my egg/rice bars in the scramble of last minute clothing decisions.)

Gathering at the start.  About 32 degrees.

Mike and Hairy to left, wearing shorts.

Popeye up front, in jacket, gloves, tights.

In spite of knowing at least twenty people riding San Felasco each year, I always end up riding alone.  Last year, it wasn’t even that cold.  But I was so bored (and glum over Tiger), that I bailed at fifty.

So, I am happy that Just Plain Mike doesn't mind a ride partner.  (Although he is one of those people.  He may not be the only rider starting out in shorts at 32 degrees.  Or the only one to take his jacket off at the first SAG.  But he definitely has the best hair around.)

Turns out that, in spite of our diverse approaches to clothing choices, we are a good ride team.  Mike has the patience to wait a few extra minutes for me to layer up at the start.  I decide I can maybe find it in me to wait a minute or two while he fuels up at the SAG stops.

Our first catch of the day is ‘Sauce, who has pulled off the trail to drink from his bottle of pickle juice.  Bringing your own remedies is something I fully understand, and I wonder how much I will miss my sushi rice bars later.

But the Gatorade/protein powder mix does the job and the morning goes like clockwork. Mike pushes the pace on the flats. I set it going uphill.  Right at three hours, the thirty mile lunch stop pops up.

Slam some chicken noodle, shed a shirt, swap out to the headband, and back on the trail again. This time with Semi and Peter for company.

It seems colder after stopping, though that can't really be true.  Can it? 

My nose is chapped from constant wiping.  I wish I hadn’t taken off the extra shirt.  I am very glad I kept on the extra gloves.

I work far enough ahead that I have time to fish my phone out of its ziploc for a picture as the guys approach down the trail.  

Peter, is that you?

I put the phone back in what I think is my pocket – but who can tell with two pairs of gloves on?  Next time I stand up, I feel it sliding down the leg of my tights. 

By the time I fish it out again and get it into an actual pocket, Mike is far away in the open distance of a long, uphill trail under some power lines.

I have catching up to do.


So here’s the deal about cold weather effort/sweating.

There are probably lots of ways to deal with riding in the cold.  The two that I know about are:  

1) staying dry by starting out cold and keeping yourself uncovered enough to evaporate all sweat.  Brr. 

2) containing the moisture and feeling warm.

Dry is just not one of my personal options.  If I were wearing a speedo in a snowstorm, I would still sweat.  So the real trick for me, is to not be debilitated because my clothes are soaked when the temperature drops.

Popeye, bless his heart, made me buy a tight, technical, wicking under-layer last year.  The only thing I liked about it at the time was that it was purple.

But what a revelation.  It sends the moisture out to the middle layer, where I do not feel it.  I do not feel it because I do not take off my outer wind-breaking layer, and evaporation is not a big factor.

I can step up the pace, sweat freely, and not feel it (much), even in the north wind of say, an open power line trail.

The soggy option, unfortunately, looks and feels disgusting by the end of the day.  And gets really heavy.  

Essentially though, only my nose is seriously cold.  My hair is dripping.  I look a mess.  My face is chapped.  But my core is OK.

I am in a rare (for me) state of clothing/temperature equilibrium.  

It only took 7 Tours de Felasco, and Popeye's help, to figure it out.  

Head to the showers?

Or ride two more hours?

It’s past the official 2:30 cut off time when I reach the last sag, at mile 47. 

3 more miles one way.  16 more the other.

But there is no one with a clip board, no cut-off police.  

I am not especially cold.  I am not tired.  I am not bored. 

It is entirely up to me whether to take the shorter route back to the parking lot and finish with a very respectable fifty miles, or push the daylight window and continue for the full 100k.

A few more guys we know come filtering in and dismount at the sag.  Only Jeff, who flew back from California especially for this ride, can be talked into continuing.

And even as he consents, Jeff is protesting.  Noooo.  I don’t want to ride any more.  I want beer.  I want beer now.  I hate you.  I despise you...

But deep down, Jeff must really want to ride that extra credit loop.  Because, in spite of the protests, he shrugs and mounts up anyway. 

Always the gentleman, he motions for me to lead into the woods on our last and final loop of the day.  He anticipates some pain, I guess.  He jacks up his music so loud I can hear it coming out his nose.  Then we get pedalling.

Jeff and Trail Gnome on the extra-credit loop.

We've maximized our daylight for sure.  The sun is low and the shadows are long.  A pair of yellow flags, snapping in the wind, mark the finish.  Popeye and the gang from the Cabot cheer us in.   The day ends much as it started.  It's getting colder.  

Time to get moving once again and take the celebration indoors.    

At last.  Clean, showered, and finally dry.  Popeye and I head gratefully to the roaring fireplace - and the Cabot's famous, free cocktail hour.

Bloody Mary please.  With lots and lots of wonderful, salty olives.

What a crazy way to earn a tee shirt.

Colorado calling.

Had a dentist appointment first thing last Monday morning.  And groceries, and laundry, and...

But it's January, and I wouldn't have tried to get in an early ride anyway. Just get the indoor chores done and look forward to afternoon sunshine. That's winter. (And the plus side of unemployment.)

But chores snowball.  Late afternoon. The fourth load of clothes, and my long sleeved bike shirt, are still rumbling in the dryer. My vest is… well, somewhere, I’m sure. And my full fingered gloves have disappeared as quickly as the time.

Finally. Tires pumped and out the door.

A block later:  Jeeze, it’s after five o’clock. Duh. Go back for lights.

Nearly night. I am on my own. I have no agenda. There is no wind to dictate direction. On Tropical Trail, the llamas will probably be in their little huts for the night, but I might as well go see.

By the time I reach Mather's Bridge, the sun has already set.  Time to switch on the lights.  I expect full dark before I reach the north end, five miles away.

But it's January. Two months in a north facing townhouse and I've already forgotten. On a clear winter night, the sunsets here go on and on.  The colors intensify long after my turnaround at Pineda. The river is mirror still, and still pink, even after I turn my back on it to head home.

Tropical Trail

But just as I lose the sun behind me, I see the moon.  Dead center between the red and green lights of the swing bridge, full and huge, and edging up into the sky.  The turn toward home forgotten, I become a two wheeled moth, on an eastern heading, drawn to the light of the moon.

The beach is spectacular.  Waves crash gently, and recede.  Light treads a wavy path straight from the moon to my feet.  It follows me down the boardwalk and on my way up the road.     

Tail light - boardwalk rail - full moon.

Tuesday morning, another bright day, another drive to Vero.  The second time this week.  A1A is brilliant with winter sunshine. Even so, the drive seems to take forever. 

Out the car window, somewhere south of Sebastian inlet.

Why is it that 42 miles on a bike is easy-like-Sunday-morning, and yet driving 42 miles to the next town feels so darned long?   

TriLady is sorting out and packing up. She's sold her house, researched jobs, and renewed her Colorado contacts. She's about ready to go.

I am driving down to help.  

Years and years in the same house. Memories, mementos, dust, and STUFF. 

She has to be out next week.  There's no going back now.

I really am the right person to call. When regret comes slithering in across the bare tile floor of all those empty rooms, I'm the one who will say (as often as it takes),  "You're going the right direction. You're doing the right thing. You have very-good-reasons."

Who hasn't made an irreversible life decision and not panicked, asking, "What on Earth have I done?"

I know the feeling. I also know, as long as you immediately start ticking off all your very-good-reasons, you will feel better before you get to the last one.

(Even if I don’t feel so good. I’m losing a friend to the distant mountains of Colorado. Where she will surely spend her weekends having really cool bike adventures without me.)

But TriLady is a seeker. The long quiet highway is not her path. She has lived here long enough, and is wise enough, to recognize her need for a place to really call home.  She isn't the first of my friends to desert the flatlands, but she just might be the first since I decided it's not my place to give anyone grief about it.

Somewhere along that long road south, I realize the difference. 

Even the longest bike ride leads me back home.  But what if it didn't lead to a place with which you have made your peace?  Every ride would seem as endlessly long as a trip in the car.  

Nah, no regrets allowed, at least not on my part.  

The same moon follows you wherever you go, beating the same path, straight to your door, wherever you are.  

It's only fair to let people go.  Even the longest rides of your life ought to lead you home in the end.

The Scar Diaries. Boats, and Bikes, and Christmas Lights.

"Ha, you don't need to keep a diary," said Popeye.  "If you want to remember what you've been doing all month, all you have to do is look at your legs."



Well, my legs, and my arms, and my shoulders...

The highlights of December are clearly marked.  

Perfect 1" round scars on each ankle from the blisters of birthday roller skating.  Scratches from the Saturday morning safari rides.  Fire ant bites from the Full Moon Hash. 

What an excellent month.

The roller skating party on my birthday was so much fun that no way was I quittin' or sittin' until every last minute was up.  No matter what the rental skates were doing to my ankles.

Scout on skates.

Giving  their ankles a break:

Greg, Lora, Roger

Afterwards, the table for twelve at Coasters new bier gartin and 25 Dogfish Head brews available for tasting made my ankles feel much better.  (If not my head.) 

But then, everyone knows the best cure for a morning headache is a run in the park.  And miraculously, my other birthday present didn't rub the blisters at all.  Any bruises were the result of catching my toe on that stump, I'm sure.

New shoes.  Old goals.

Wickham Park Marathon

 2012 - 50k - Who's with me???

The demolition left no wounds, unless you count a few pangs to the heart.

If you see bikes wearing Christmas lights and people in funny hats at your local LongDoggers on a December full moon, don't think a thing about it.  (Just watch out for fire ants at the circle afterward.)

Longdoggers on a full moon.

Smiles got a new 29r.  Awesome!

The boat parade had some amazing lights this year too, but Scout and Pie Man always get my vote for best Christmas decorations.   

Grand Canal boat parade.

From the deck of Sunny Skies.

A little something for Santa.

Every year or two, Pepper is possessed by a vampire cat.  I still have no explanation for the Doctor Jekyll - Mr Hyde transformation. 

Apparently there is no known cure.  The best online advice I could find was stock up on bandages and disinfectant.  

Sweet.

Unsweet.

Fortunately, I had on a long sleeve bike shirt and blood comes out in the wash.  Unfortunately, the scars on my forearm will last awhile.

Popeye's been commuting to work on his bike.  In December that means 15 miles each way using lights.  I can't quite bring myself to ride in the predawn, but I usually meet him somewhere along his route home. 

Riding in the dark and the cold toughens you up.  I guess my evening half-commute makes me only semi-tough.  But it does provide an excuse to admire the Christmas lights along the way. 

 VW sleigh and eight tiny flamingoes.

Each Saturday morning, while Popeye is blazing around Palm Bay with the roadies, Killer and I ride around the block.  The Melbourne block, that is.  35-40 miles, with as much off road interspersed as possible.  Every once in a while our Felasco friends take that route and I get to ride with other people.

Sean and 'Sauce

     

OK, I allowed a "before" picture.

That extra ten has got to go.

At least Killer is at his perfect weight.

Semi at the top of the Parking garage.

Hey, it's Melbourne. 

You take your hills where you can find them.

Christmas with the Chick and her Hubby.  No cuts, no bruises.  Maybe a couple extra pounds.   

I have never been so excited to give a gift.  Who else in the world would love a lime green mixer?  Well, other than me. 

We got out of town for a couple of rides.  Didn't get marked up at either one.  There wouldn't have been room for any more scars anyway.  I've been layering them on as it is.

Greenway underpass at 49th St.

From Santos, it's an easy solo ride west out to 484.  Popeye and his friends did nearly the same ride, it turns out.  You'd think we'd cross paths in nearly four hours of riding, but there're so many alternate routes,  I don't see any of them until I arrive back at the trailhead with three minutes to spare before Popeye shows up. 

I have to say that the terrain out past 49th St. is a little more interesting than nearer Santos.  Those trails between Santos and the land bridge are so flat and so fast, they feel downhill both ways.  But, the upside to boring is no scars all day.

West of 49th St.

I didn't acquire a single scrape at Chuck Lennon Park either.   But not because it was boring.  Quite the opposite.  Swoopy and super fun.  Northstar and I go around a third time before quitting.

  

Tom riding around a sinkhole.

I hope that bike was riderless when it went in.

We did some other, only semi-perilous, activities.  Like the chili cookoff at Pie Man and Scout's.  Testing out their rental SUP fully clothed.  And a round of shots after Murdocks, and before watching Resident Evil on New Year's eve.  (Some things just have no explanation.)

I forgot all about burning old bad habits in the New Year's firepit.

But I did remember to say Rabbit-Rabbit this morning.



The only dilemma was what on earth to wish for.

Happy New Year, everyone! 

May all your scars be worthwhile.