“It’s cold out today. Or, that’s what I thought when I got in my car.”

I’m met with a variation of that comment at least once a week when people see me with a bike in one hand and a helmet in the other. A friend once informed me, in the middle of that frigid cold snap we had back in December, that no one should be riding in this weather. It’s probably true and sometimes – other than the fact that the bike just gets me there faster – I’m not sure why I still do it. I know I’m capable of riding through a Boston winter. I have nothing to prove by repeating the miserable experience.

Because while winter bike commuters deserve a gold foil star sticker, that doesn’t make them – myself included – any better than any other cyclist. Tolerating the short commute from my apartment to school and back in something like 0F temperatures isn’t fun, but it takes a little lot more to do that, then go home to get back on a bicycle for a few solid hours.

Yeah, I know, it’s old news. But listening to the things my friends are doing, and then actually trying to emulate even just a tiny slice of their training, is kind of like finally admitting to yourself that you’re dating an asshole. First, you attribute that whole gap between yourself and your Cat 1 and 2 friends to mutant elite genes that you just don’t have. Like this is as good as it’s going to get, right? [Wrong.] Then those friends start to encourage separation from that lifestyle and you start to believe that it’s actually possible and you’re not going to die [of heartbreak or otherwise] in the process. Finally you’re like WTF, I can do way better than this and I’m going to prove it and you dump the motherfucker [or in this case, the couch and TV].

But when people have real jobs that don’t include “student” somewhere in the title, training apparently involves things like getting up at 5.30am to spin for an hour, then going to work and afterwards hitting the gym, running and riding on the weekends and spending every waking moment not in bed or on the toilet in the saddle. And finding myself in that slight limbo where I don’t really know what I’m doing, I’m tempted to regress to the familiar confines of my couch and wasting countless hours on the Internet. Even if, like any overdue break-up, I know that once I man up about this, I’m never going to want to go back to what I had going before.

So I’ve been trying. To not make excuses, that is. I’m trying to spend more and more time on the rollers [love those things] while retaining all my other time commitments. Which presents a very obvious and elementary math problem of not having enough hours in the day [another reason why I am currently in awe of all of those in training; they have somehow managed to control time by leading fairly regular lives while getting in 3-4 hour rides at least every other day]. And on top of all that, they also have the ability to push themselves really, really hard. When they’re alone. In their houses. On their trainers. If that doesn’t turn you on, you need to go find another blog to read [...maybe this break up won't be so hard, afterall?].

With my complete lack of discipline and the desire to stop when things get ridiculously sweaty, at least half of me is fairly sure that I’ll meet spring still out of shape and whining in the pedals. But like my regular announcements to best friends after a break up that I will never, ever date another man again, I’m hoping that thinking positive in the face of the seemingly impossible might be enough to prove me wrong. If not, I’ll at least get skinny trying.

Or so I hope.

First Chicago, and now Portland, ummm Boston we need one of these…

I never really understood the obsession with protein until my hot cousin married a yachtsman.

Tall and ruggedly handsome, sporting the perpetual tan, I was impressed. He also happened to be a super nice guy, and we shot the shit about the Louis Vuitton America’s Cup, the then-new yacht used by Team New Zealand that ended up breaking into pieces, and what it feels like to be on a yacht that is fucking flying. On water.

He also told me how, when he was racing full-time, he was eating about 10,000 calories a day.

Back then, I was all wtf. But following and befriending a few real cyclists, it makes sense, and consuming that many calories doesn’t seem so much like a death sentence to skinny. Well, that and the fact that my cousin’s husband had a regimented diet balanced out for his sailing skills.

I don’t have a nutritionist, unfortunately, so I’m left to my own devices of “don’t eat too much processed shit” and “eat balanced meals.” Which translates to “eat stuff that won’t break the bank.” Too bad when you start riding a lot more, you tend to get hungry. Like all the time.

So in comes protein [to supplement my massive caffeine consumption], which is supposed to keep you fuller longer and help build muscle and all that goodness. But being a former vegetarian, I’m a tiny bit wary of animal products. Still, when a friend comes up to visit his parents who own some free range chickens, and hands you half a dozen fresh eggs, dinner for the next week is going to be omelettes and sunny side ups and scrambled eggs.

Cracking open the first one in the pan a few nights ago, I was tempted to bike down to M1’s parents’ house. Or at least steal a chicken. These things are huge. These eggs are to grocery store eggs what Chris Hoy would be to a sad anorexic hipster. And as delicious [looking] in comparison.

I’ve actually been hoarding a few; making that half dozen stretch. And as odd as it may sound, this is dinner food. I somehow still can’t manage to eat much before a ride. Call it a digestive system used to a day that starts at school or the office, but eating anything before 9am [even with a ride planned] takes a conscious effort. Although, of course, that could just be a sign that I need to do more riding.

At least these delicious protein bombs have me pedaling faster on the way home…

Inexplicably, I get less sleep on the weekends than during the week.

Well, “inexplicably” to the ordinary person. Usually asleep by 1am, up by 6am the following morning, I try to be out the door and on the bike by 7. Anyone who goes out on training rides knows the deal. Besides, riding early means less traffic and having the planned route all to yourself. And riding alone means I can sometimes sleep in until 7, without worrying about scrambling to meet a friend.

Even on 5 hours of sleep, the freedom of flying down wherever on a bicycle is totally worth it.

After a long week, I was aching to go on a ride Saturday. I got up and did the usual routine of not stretching enough and forcing myself to eat before jumping on my newly-freewheeled bike. I had a shorter ride planned and my bag stuffed with gym clothes and running shoes to force myself to head directly to the gym afterwards. And coasting down Beacon, I was on the fringes of zoning out. Finally.

Still searching for that happily numb flat-lining my brain does when I’m out on a ride, I pulled on the brakes at a red light. And as I attempted to hop back on, I felt resistance.

Confused, I looked back at my rear wheel and saw something I am [unfortunately] all too familiar with. A misaligned wheel [from when the hub was flipped over on Friday] was rubbing up against one of the brake pads. I was only about 7 miles in.

My slowly forming bubble of happiness popped. In fact, it shattered into a million sharp pieces which then dug into a rapidly reviving stress monster. My adjustable wrench was lying on the floor of my apartment. I was somewhere in Waltham. Total suck fail.

I refused to turn back and just pulled at the brake pad to loosen it whenever I stopped. Each tug was coupled with a sigh that was also fueling an exploding sense of bitchery. This was the worst day for this to happen.

Ironically, I was only able to zone out much later as I ran on a treadmill. The wheel got realigned after my scheduled time in purgatory [read: the gym] and the promise of a better ride the next day alleviated the panicked sense of bike hypochondria.

Yeah, I know, another [preferably geared] bike I can use for training rides would be [more than] useful. I’m working on it. Really.

[I know, I didn't post this weekend...but if you're really curious about what I'm up to, I just may be on twitter...]

I got rained on yesterday – for the first time this summer.

It wasn’t even heavy rain, and lasted a mere 5 minutes. But lacking a front fender, my legs were instantly covered in beads of water, raising goosebumps on my unevenly tanned appendages.

It was the first time, in a while, that I was sort of uncomfortable on my bike. And between dodging puddles and eyeing the overcast sky, I was actually thankful that I had a run scheduled yesterday afternoon, and no ride.

As much as I’d love to move to Seattle, sometimes I wonder how much riding I’d get in if I actually did.

The nicer weather’s definitely been spoiling me. Rain shouldn’t even be a problem, just sort of messy. There’s no ice or snow involved, no layers and layers of clothing to stay warm, no feeling as if I’m pedaling with all my might but not moving. But I’m still trying to dodge the outdoors, and using gyming, errands, and overdue hat orders as excuses to stay inside.

Lame, I know. I mean, I know. The worst part is that gymming is just…so much easier. Running indoors on a treadmill at a gym conveniently located on my way home from work takes no psychological effort. On the other hand, planning a route, making sure I have everything I need [tubes, pump, energy bar, water, etc.] for a ride, then actually throwing down even a so-so number of miles is much more mentally straining. And when it’s wet, humid, and rainy out, motivation conveniently slips away and is nowhere to be found.

I’m running again today [the guilt!]. But only because tomorrow morning looks like it’s going to be clear. And that means a real bike ride.

Faux-roadie-proseur weekend, here I come!

It’s official.

It takes a special kind of person to leave the office at 5pm, change, get on a bike, and throw down some training miles. The obsessed kind of special where groups of friends heading to bars on beautiful Tuesday evenings can simply be ignored, exhaustion from a busy day at work is pushed aside, and sitting in front of the TV after work is just not an option.

Not that I have a TV, but I really do not want to belong to this special group of people.

I headed out to do my first longer ride after work yesterday. I’m totally okay with heading to the gym and sweating out a few miles on a treadmill after work, but back on the bike, it took a monumental effort to even do a mere 30 miles. The day at the office was spent immersed in one massive case, which meant that I was counting down the minutes until 5pm. And when that magic number appeared on the clock, it was time to squeeze the last drops of physical energy out of my legs.

It seemed like a bad idea from the start. I got home to refill my water bottle and jersey-fy and found that I was out of energy bars. Screw it, I thought, and headed out anyway. And while the route was relatively flat [compared to the 40 mile route I usually do], it made it sort of more boring. I was already tired, getting hungry, and starting to mentally kick myself for conjuring up this idea when I have to run tomorrow.

Because it takes a special kind of neurotic, too, to do rides after work. And it’s not just a competitive kind of neurotic. You really have to love bicycles and everything about them to do it. Passionate neurosis, I guess. The key ingredient for anyone carving out a couple hours out of their day to pedal away. Social obligations get delayed, as does dinner, and of course, just life in general.

But then again, if I wasn’t out there yesterday evening, sweating, hurting, and fighting that voice that told me I could turn back after 12 miles, I would never have seen a toilet plunked down on the side of the road. Something that, while you could appreciate from the driver’s seat of a car, you can really only fully experience when you hop off your bike next to it, to snap a picture.

It’s sort of gross, but it made me smile. I’m going back later this week to make sure it’s still there.

Dress up. Dress down.

Change shoes. About three times a day. Another summer working in Boston.

I love shoes, but this is getting to be a little too much. It feels like I consistently have three pairs of shoes on me that I’m actually wearing. Needless to say, my outfits are changing, too, almost a la Britney in “Womanizer.” Almost, because I’m keeping most of my clothes on.

It doesn’t go so far as “role play” [and it's not nearly as kinky]. It’s just what anyone who bikes to work deals with – a change of more professional clothes carefully folded and packed in my bag with gym clothes, running shoes, and the odd energy bar. And when I scoot into the office, I change out the helmet for a ponytail, shorts for a skirt, and Sidis for heels.

The first time I’ve been in heels in what seems like forever, I’ve been feeling sort of tall this week. Which, at 5′3″, is absurd. Walking around in a skirt and button down shirt added more weird to the whole mix. I might even have looked lawyer-ly, shockingly enough.

And at the end of the day, I switched out the heels for Sidis, and clipped back into my bike only to change into running shoes 15 minutes later.

In the grand scheme of things, running is closer to biking than, say, burying my nose in trial briefs and motions. Or so it would seem. Too bad I’m more comfortable with the latter two activities than the former. Stuck on a treadmill, following a running plan supplied by Jones, I tried not to hate life too much. At least it wasn’t that crowded; only a handful of people got to watch a cyclist trying to learn how to run.

Predictably, I couldn’t wait to switch out of those shoes for the cleats. At the end of the day, finally taking off my shoes for good, I wiggled my toes as I stretched and sighed. Another relatively physically productive day [at least my legs think so].

Summers mean shoes, shoes, and more switching out of shoes. Hopefully I’m on my way to getting shredded in the process.

Fake til you make it. That’s what some reliable news sources [read: Cosmo] have taught me.

That might be why I only wear spandex and Sidis nowadays and will at least try to look the part of serious cyclist. Let’s try to forget that I’m currently – and probably will continue to be – incredibly slow. Those are small details that aren’t really relevant to this discussion.

Given my recent acquisition of Sidis [seriously one of the most comfortable, efficient things I've ever had attached to my feet], it probably doesn’t come as a surprise that I’m turning the “faking it” up a notch. I even have a jersey now [okay, that was almost a joke purchase but I love to rock it]. Now if only my Bianchi looked less like a commuter beater bike and more…racy.

Of course – this being me – I mean that in both senses of the word. The Bianchi being my official training bike [I am currently shamelessly loving that freewheel], I need it to be fast and, you know, as sexy as possible. And while the pink + dark green theme was cool in that super fixster look-I’m-so-hipster-I-can-look-good-in-colors-that-don’t-really-match kind of way, watermelons don’t really move quickly. They sort of just roll sluggishly.

So it was time for a change. Chris had been pointing out how faded out and gross my formerly pink bartape was for about the past month [yeah, I have amazing friends]. I tested the waters with the purchase and application of a pair of Vittoria Randonneurs. They looked fast. I plunged into the “racy” pool with Pro white bartape last night.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Me? Fast? It’s more than a vain hope. It’s more like a delusion. Still, I’ve heard, from reliable sources, that while training endlessly will make you fast, white bartape makes you go even faster. Okay, yeah, that presumes you enjoy training for hours on a trainer, Powercranks, and that inexplicable pain of drinking protein shakes. I’m obviously not there yet…but I’m working on it.

In the meantime, the goal is to at least look like I enjoy all of the above. I’m already practicing chugging protein shakes with a smile. Now if only my legs can keep up…

[Oh, and I'm expecting full reports on Battenkill!]

I’m a great fan of “to do” lists. I installed Post-it software on my computer specifically for this purpose. Well, specifically so I can type out my to do lists days in advance, and then put the extremely satisfying “DONE” next to each task.

I checked off my last “to do” task – outlining my tax law course – with shaky, sweaty hands last night. I think my feet were drenched in steamy sweat too. My right forearm was twitchy from overexertion. I am really full of terrible ideas.

All because of a simple entry on my “to do” list: “rollers.” I escaped the library early yesterday to meet a friend who was selling his rollers on the cheap. With only two single-speeds, I was advised that trainers wouldn’t be nearly as effective, so when the rollers went up for sale, I immediately called dibs. The first person claiming them dropped out – lucky[?] for me.

As I planted “DONE” next to tasks already completed late last night, I saw the “rollers” entry. For me, that originally meant “get cash, be at home to pick them up.” That somehow turned into “well, let’s try them out!”

This is sort of the time I kind of wish I had roommates to stop me from indulging my insanity. Against my better judgment, I set up the rollers in my hallway and propped my bike on top of it. And then I climbed on. That was the easy part. Now I had to actually get on my bike that was supported by this thing called air, and try to balance. I was half bracing myself against the wall, my hands flooding with nervous sweat as I attempted to push the pedals. Hunched over, clinging to my bars for dear life, I tried not to think about Mark’s roommate, who managed to fly off his trainer into his TV, or Jones’s friend who flew into his dorm room closet at 35mph.

I’ll admit, my courage lasted me a scant 10 minutes on the rollers, and that includes trying to get on. I left it in the hallway though, right in front of my door. I’m hoping the guilt of seeing it when I walk into my apartment will serve as extra motivation. And hopefully it’ll also stop my hands from constantly sweating every time I think about them. Because unless I can master those rollers, my fantasy of watching movies with bike friends who are all on rollers/trainers is going to stay just that…and that’s just unacceptable.

Oh, and study.

That’s pretty much all I did yesterday. I fell into bed early on Saturday in anticipation for the Sunday morning ride, even though there was no route planned. And possibly no ride partner, Pete having texted me late Saturday night that he was up for the ride but was an “anarchist party.” I figured he’ll be a no show.

I woke up bright and early to a comment on my blog from Pete. Written well past 1am. Yeah, right, he’s going to be ready by 8.30am, I thought. Screw it, I was going to do two 15 mile loops without stopping anyway [my first 30 miler - sad but true], Pete or no Pete. But a small chat box popped up in gmail around 7.45 – Mr. Pete Shelby himself, awake and willing to go on a ride after about 5 hours of sleep, even with work from noon to 6pm at CB. He picked up a Red Bull at the Store24 and we headed right into gusty winds towards hills and, for me, 30 miles of fixed [anticipated] agony.

We didn’t stop [minus the few red lights we didn't blow through] until we had thrown down 14 or so miles, and we pedaled past an apparent fire in Brookline. There were about seven fire trucks, the road was blocked off by police cars, and ambulances also lined the street. I used it as an excuse to snap a few pictures, eat some offered gummi bears, hydrate, then slide my feet back into the clips to do 15+ more miles.

My toes numb by mile 20, I was seriously jealous of Pete’s Sidis [I haven't set mine up yet]. My legs were sort of on autopilot halfway through the second loop, and only familiar landmarks and the desire not to be seen/labeled a lame quitter kept me pushing on the pedals. Well, that and good jokes – seemingly perfectly timed – which had me laughing to the point of not realizing that I was already halfway up a hill and that I just had to push a little more to crest the mofo.

My knees seemed to think 28 miles was quite enough as the last stretch home got slightly uncomfortable. That could be due to my sprint through the intersection in Washington Square, though; we never seem to make the light, except on Sundays. Sighting a green as we came down Beacon Street, I yelled ["It's Sunnnddayyyyy!!!"] and whooped as we burst through the light as it turned yellow. Gritting my teeth, sniffling while trying to breathe/pant, head down, slouched into my drops, we finished the ride in two hours and change. Less than 15mph; yeah, slow. Still, don’t hate.

I proceeded to stretch, shower, stuff my face, and fall asleep on my books [missing polo!], but dreaming of pretty bikes, summer rides, and all things Rapha [Pete unzipped his jacket just enough as we said goodbye to reveal a baby blue Rapha jersey...yeah that whole "starving artist" front is totally just to get chicks].

Next time, we’ll do it faster.

[Today's also my older sister's birthday - the only person who is capable of making me cry in sheer envy of her artistic talent, call me on all my bullshit, and the first person who taught me that what doesn't kill me will only make me stronger. Thanks, Kanako. Happy Birthday!]

Huffy Puffy

1) A sound emanating from the face due to poor fitness secondary to academia
2) A /Euro/ training method involving hill climbs on a 45-pound mass-produced monster
3) An LBS attitude subsequent to a repair request to said monster
4) Because every bike deserves to be ridden … by somebody

Hello, world.  After doing some soul-searching, I’ve decided that I am somewhere between “enthusiast” and “dilettante” with respect to my life on wheels.  That being said, I’ve managed to commute to school/work each day for the past seven years on the most beater-riffic of bikes:  five years on a 2002 Huffy Alpine, then the last two on a refurbished pink/purple 1996 Diamondback Topanga.  I am male.

The goal:  To commute on a bike that appears shitty enough to be unstealable in Cambridge/Providence/Dorchester.  So far, success.

From this humble throne, I’ve attempted a great deal of interpersonal cycling advocacy and have dabbled in the more formal varieties in Boston and its vassal states.  I fantasize about riding in a Critical Mass.  Unfortunately, good Republicans don’t.

Most of all, I loathe becoming a *bike snob*.  Cycling excites me as it offers a level playing field:  independence, empowerment, exercise, and recreation to anyone willing to learn.  (And, for those who have quaffed the Kool-Ade, status).  In a city as compact as Boston is, cycling is faster and less expensive than taking public transportation – as long as your bike doesn’t get stolen.

I often feel the glow of camaraderie at the sight of teen mobs roaming on tricked-out BMX bikes – even with their blatant disregard of traffic laws and decency.  On a battered department store bike, I’d blend into the happy environment of delinquency.  Unfortunately, my subsequent acquisition of legitimate bikes and participation in college-level racing may have put me on my way out of that salt-of-the-earth state.  Spandex begets snobbery.  But the memories of true “community” biking are still warm.

The following list of honor is a catalog of all the bikes that I’ve acquired – as far as I can remember.

1988: 1988 “BMX”, blue with hard 12″ blue foam wheels, coaster brakes, training wheels. Dumped due to growth.
1991: 198x Ross Snapper 20″, yellow/red with coaster brakes. Dumped due to growth.
1994: 1994 Murray, blue with enormous bottom tube 24″, yellow front shocks. Stolen 1995.
1996: 1996 Huffy Enduro, black 24″ 18-speed thumbshifter. Sold 2005 in a yard sale.
2002: 2002 Huffy Alpine, gray/red 26″ 18-speed gripshift. Dumped 2008 after multiple-organ failure.
2007: 2007 Specialized Allez, 54cm black with 16-speed Sora.  IN SERVICE
2007: 1996 Diamondback Topanga, “amethyst swirl” (purple/pink) 17″ with 21-speed Alvio.  RESTORED, IN SERVICE
2008: 2002 Specialized Sirrus, metallic silver 50cm with 24-speed shifter. Sold 2008 to a friend – too small.
2008: 2001 Stumpjumper Pro, black with 27-speed Deore XT.  IN SERVICE
2009: 197x Schwinn Sprint, gray/red with 12-speed stem shifter.  Hobby restoration.

Dear Topanga gets drunk:  Harpoon brewery

There’s a 1940s Elgin Airflow sitting in our basement, but that’s not to be touched.
Photographs some other time.

A friend once asked me why I didn’t just switch my squealing, impossible to adjust cantilever brakes – the front refuses to STFU, so in retaliation, I refuse to use it – to center pull caliper ones.

“It’s not like you’re ever going to race ‘cross,” he said.

I stubbornly refused to switch them out though; and for once, I distinctly remember that decision being motivated by something other than my automatic reaction to being told that I can’t do something ["Oh yeah? Watch me"]. Because even though I had no idea what cyclocross was when I bought my tractorino, once I found out, I’ve been secretly crushing on it since.

I mean, who can resist a cycling event that looks so hardcore. Not only does it involve biking through grass and mud, you have to run [up hills, even!], and then jump over stuff. It looks like pure masochism. It totally turns me on.

Unfortunately, I currently lack the balls to actually do it. But laziness and the need to go to the BC main campus sometimes fires up the cyclocrosser poseurcrosser in me. Because when the options are biking up a hill or taking the stairs with a bike over your shoulder, well, I made the obvious choice.

Okay, I admit, I didn’t run up them. More like plodded at a steady pace while the undergrads snickered about the psycho girl hauling her bike up too many stairs. And those stairs were killer. But they still fuel daydreams of running up them in cycling shoes with friends, bikes over our shoulders, in preparation for an up-coming cross race. Only to descend them to do it all over again, thighs burning, heart and lungs about to burst, but still laughing.

It hasn’t happened yet, but those agonizing cantilever brakes are a constant reminder. Through all its screaming – when I absolutely need to use it – my front brake keeps that dream alive. I’m definitely keeping my fingers crossed on this one.

No pun intended.

[My favorite underage bike mechanic is turning 21 today, too -- Happy Birthday Chris!!!]

I’m not quite addicted to Facebook, yet. Or, not as addicted as some. I don’t need to de-activate my account during finals because I’d be on it otherwise. I guess I’m just lazy; I don’t update my status numerous times throughout the day, I don’t stalk friends through pictures, and I don’t have 2398012984722 pictures of myself up on my profile.

When I finally caved and signed up for an account last year, I was hesitant to even friend people I’ve never met before but went to school with. There was the pre-requisite of “I have to actually talk to you first” before I confirmed friend requests.

That’s been sort of changing. Sort of. Because I’ve been Facebook friends with a certain Dan Pugatch, whom I didn’t get to meet until last night for his birthday party at Charlie’s Kitchen. That’s not to say my Facebook standards have plummeted; Dan is the incredibly awesome author/blogger behind Not Your Average Bicycle Messenger, and we both read each other’s respective blogs. In a way, he knew more about me than some of my Facebook friends that I’ve actually met.

And because I stupidly forget my SD card for my digital camera at home [total fail!], I was only able to take some crappy cell phone pictures. We finally did meet, though, last night, over a Diet Coke [for me, more on that tomorrow] and a Jameson on the rocks [for him].

It was great seeing some familiar faces, and meeting new ones. My ride partner even came with, which made sure I got home at a decent hour so I could ride, ride, ride today. Even though, as I found out later because I never drink soda, Diet Coke really kills sleep.

Still, hanging out with bike people is always fun, and always a good time. I already can’t wait for next weekend; I have polo planned [for once!], hopes of more bike parts coming in, and lots and lots of rides. There’s hottt-ness waiting for me at IBC too [I mean, other than the bike]. And of course, there’s the new bike.

Ahhhhhh!!! Can’t wait!!!!

I hit the snooze button this morning. Almost twice.

That’s a pretty big deal for someone who can’t manage to sleep past 8am, even if I end up going to sleep at 3am. To sweeten the whole deal, I’ve even managed to sleep like the dead these past couple of days, not getting up restlessly in the middle of the night/early morning. This morning, I woke up and was positively giddy…and I had no idea why.

But as I hopped out of bed and inspected my gigantor thighs [and coming to the conclusion that they can use much more definition], I remembered exactly why. I passed out last night thinking of 100-milers, kits, and training sessions with friends…all on a fixed gear. And I was close to convincing myself that it could actually happen.

Blame Facebook on this one. When I put up “100 miles + fixed gear. Discuss” as a status message, I expected people to discourage me from even attempting it. Too bad friends were all too willing to help me meet this goal. And because I hate to disappoint, well…looks like I’m training for a century.

Assuming my knees don’t completely crap out, this means a lot of serious riding and probably a good measure of cross-training, too. This idea scares me; I’d actually consider facing the embarrassment of falling on my face in front of [insert name of hot messenger/cyclist/biker boy] as I try to clip out over the blood, sweat, and tears that’s going to be involved in this endeavor.

Yeah, I totally bit off more than I can chew on this one. I did consider backpedaling my way out of it, but couldn’t justify it without trying. And as I started contemplating how exactly to start chewing, I remembered an incident last year involving an insensitively inappropriate joke and my best friend. It had us both in fits of laughter in front of our respective computers [as always, it was over gchat]:

Me: I almost snorted out coffee all over my screen!

Lauren: I’m eating a cookie, and I’m laughing so hard I can’t taste it.

As embarrassing and terribly painful as this training thing might turn out to be, here’s hoping that even if I did manage to bite off more than I can chew, maybe I’ll be laughing so hard that it won’t even matter.

One thing that starting training has done is pushed me to address health issues in a different way.  I realized that I had to be more aggressive with my approach.  No longer could I just ignore my asthma or knee pain.  No longer could I not deal with the fact that I eat poorly.  I had to figure out how to approach my health in a more mindful way.  

So, I started by making some appointments.  I made an appointment with my doctor for the asthma.  I made an appointment with my physical therapist to address my knee pain.  I also made an appointment with a yoga teacher to improve my balance (both physical and emotional) and to teach me some stretches. 

I have been slowly figuring out how to feed myself.  I have started by committing to eating breakfast which is actually quite hard for me.  I hate to eat in the morning and my medication kills my apatite at that time of day.  As with any change in ones habits, there are many steps.  I have to figure out what I would be willing to eat; I have to purchase it; I have to prepare it (if necessary), and I have to eat it. 

I have learned that to make fundamental changes, I have to do them slowly and deliberately.  I have to remember that change is a process and that it probably, won’t all happen at once.  It is not a linear process. I have to be patient and compassionate with myself, because making real change is hard.  

There are many changes I need to make in my eating habits, as well as my health maintenance – I need to take my asthma medication consistently, I need to do my knee exercises everyday, I need to do more yoga, I need to eat more when I ride and less at night – but I know that I have to take these changes one at a time.   I work on making small changes and improvements and realize that progress is happening. 

I have also learned that being gentle with myself is more helpful than being a drill sergeant.  My inner child doesn’t respond well to condemnation and judgment.  So, I am working on being encouraging if I goof up.  As my mother used to say, “Tomorrow is another day.” 

I have struggled with depression for much of my life. Now is no exception.  Anyone who has experienced clinical depression knows that it is easy to get overwhelmed and paralyzed when one feels down.  It is very hard to get motivated and mobilized to DO anything — even things that you normally like to do.

My depression is a huge obstacle to my training.  There are some days that I can’t manage to complete my training regime or can’t even get started.  And some days, I need to listen to my body and my psyche and take a break and other times I am learning that I need to push through.

I think of new green shoots in spring pushing up through the soil.  It looks like growing must be hard work.  They are so new and fragile and the soil is so dense.  Similarly, when I am depressed I am a fragile being who has to push through the darkness to move.

It was like that yesterday.  I was really down and not sure what I could manage to do.  I had a yoga lesson scheduled and it was a nice day outside, the first in eons.  However, what I felt like doing was crawling into bed and pulling the covers over my head and calling it a day.  I decided that it would be better to try to get to yoga even if it meant I cried the whole time.  (My teacher is sensitive and supportive and was okay with my mood.)  I went to yoga, got out of the house, learned some new poses, and got moving.  It took monumental effort to get there.  After yoga, I managed to get on the bicycle too.  I told myself that I only had to go out for a half hour and if I felt too bad I could turn around.  I also knew no one would be looking at me while riding and if I cried no one would notice or care.  I ended up riding an hour or so.

Knowing when to push through and when to focus on comfort is critical.  I have pushed when it would have been better to just rest.  I usually end up feeling worse at those times.  But many times, pushing through the darkness allows a little light to come in.  I think when I can push myself without judgment and without investment in the outcome, then I do better.  If I start and can’t finish, well at least I started.  Attitude toward how I am pushing through is key.  If I can stay gentle and compassionate with myself, then I can challenge myself without the backlash of condemnation should I not be able to do that which I set out to do.

I know this will be an ongoing struggle and staying open, present, and compassionate with myself (and others) is critical to managing those dark times.

Looks like a busy cycling weekend in Boston…but if you need one more thing to do…check out the Multi-Sport Conference at MIT. I was talking with a couple cycling buddies from Tri-Hard Training. It seems that there will be lots of free, interesting talks, vendors with cool new stuff, and a generally good time. Will, from Tri-Hard is a USA Cycling certified coach; he’ll be presenting. More info is available at www.multisportworld.com.