Gettin' Pretty

"If you can't laugh at yourself, life's gonna seem a whole lot longer than you like"
Garden State

I received the "All Clear" from Dr. Jameson. My life of casts, splints and walking boots is officially over. He said that my fracture is gone and my plate and screws look great. He also checked my range of motion and told me I was 6-8 weeks ahead of schedule. I was excited to hear him say that my riding probably played a factor in my healing. No more doctor's visits. I decided to celebrate like any self respecting cyclist would, by shaving my legs.



It was not my plan to document this act, but my wife snuck around the corner and snapped this shot while I was mid shave. This photo was actually step 1 in the process. It had been a while and I figured it would be easier to use the clippers first, then move to the razor. When I looked at the photo I thought, "what the hell". Maybe this photo will finally get some of you readers to comment.

There are two camps in cycling, shavers and non shavers. I'm a shaver. I believe the non-shavers are in the minority on our rides. People will give all types of explanations for why they shave, I just considered it a rite of passage. It also looks a helluva lot better.

I rode the Peddler ride again this week. I said a few posts back when I described getting dropped that I was hoping just to make it one more mile on the ride. Well, I did. My total ride was 17 miles with an average of 21 mph. I'm pretty fired up. Maybe it was the smooth legs...

Upcoming Memphis Racing Event

Tiger Lane Crit Series
presented by RedAnt Racing

April 6, 20 & May 4
Memphis Fairgrounds

Come out to support this outstanding local race series.
I'll be there...if that's not reason enough.

The Tuesday-Thursday Ride

Came across this on youtube. One of our riders strapped on a helmet cam. Here's the result...



by bikewrench1

When the Rubber Meets the Road...

With my confidence level high from the previous day's ride, I decided to get out and do the Peddler group ride Thursday morning. This would be the first group ride of the year. These rides typically consist of an "A" group and a "B" group. Until my accident, or should I say aggravated assault by someone who shall remain nameless, I was riding the "A" ride. This group typically consists of 20-30 riders. These group rides are exhilarating, but can also be dangerous for numerous reasons. For starters, there is a lot of testosterone. Twenty-five men gathered together in spandex and shaved legs - think about it. These rides are fast and take place in an extremely confined space. Claustrophobics need not apply. You are riding 2 feet behind and beside another cyclist at 25mph. A lapse in concentration or an armadillo running across the road (yes, it happened late last year on Park Ave) and you will end up ass over elbows. The ride also begins at 5:45 am, which means this time of year it is pitch black dark. However, there is organization and common rules to these rides that only comes from participating; no manual is handed out on your virgin ride and there is no orange tape put on your jersey signaling you're a rookie like they do in NASCAR. For one, never slam on your brakes. This can and does create a crash that leaves cyclists and bikes looking like giant pretzels on the road. A rider in front of me did this one morning - my heart came out of my chest and I put it in the back pocket of my jersey. The smell of burning rubber on a group ride is a bad sign. Also, signaling items such as debris or parked cars in the road, or yelling "clear" or "car left" when going through a stop light are just unspoken rules. There may be 30 individual riders in these groups, but at times, it's like one gigantic speeding bullet.

The alarm went off for a second morning at 4:50 am. Getting up was easier this time, and I was excited about being back in the group. I was dressed and on the road at 5:10. I rode to the start. It's about 7-8 miles from the house. Now, I did this for two reasons, first being, it's a good warm up for the ride. The second being, I could pull off early if I needed to and go back home. However, I was confident that I would be fine. I arrived at the gas station parking lot on Highland at 5:30 and was the first rider there. I like being the first person there. It gives me a few minutes to think about the ride ahead; not be rushed. At about 5:40, a mass of riders began to appear. One common theme was occurring as each rider was pulling up, everyone had a local team kit on. Now, this is not uncommon as we have a lot of local teams here, but there are typically a lot of regular Joe's in plain cycling clothes as well. Once all the riders were there I took one last look around and realized, "Shit, I picked the wrong morning to return." There would be no "B" ride, this was going to be a massive hang-on-for-dear-life ride.

The group pulled out of the parking lot at 5:50. I positioned myself towards the back. I would typically not do this, but it has been a while since I'd been in the group scenario and my handling might be a little rusty. My plan was to hug the wheel in front of me and just sit in. Immediately the ride was different than I had remembered. The first mile or two winds through a residential neighborhood. Last year, we would ride at a steady pace through this section, maybe have a conversation with a fellow rider. This ride, that wasn't happening. It was fast, immediately. We turned onto Quince. This is the first long flat section, about 4-5 miles long. The riders up front hit the pedals like a set of afterburners. I hugged the wheel in front and pedaled like a had a rabid dog at my feet. We were hauling ass. I didn't have my computer on, but I figured we had to be clocking 24-26 mph. I was tentative - it's been four months since I'd been in this position. I caught myself lightly tapping my brakes, I didn't want to be "that guy", the one who makes an idiot maneuver and causes a big one. I somehow managed to hang on through this section, but I knew what was ahead. When we got to the base of the first climb I was sitting in the same position towards the back of the pack. If I was going to hang on, I would have to move up towards the middle.

The sound of changing gears was my signal. I pulled to the left and got out of the saddle. "Just a few riders," I kept repeating to myself. Halfway up the climb I was mid-pack. I had used up a lot of energy, but I kept pedaling. I reached the top of the climb, and I was gassed. I moved back in the pack again, hoping for a bit of recovery time. There is a good sized downhill right after the climb and the riders up front took full advantage. They hit the pedals hard. I accelerated, but was timid. My nerves had taken over. I sat there looking up at the long freight train in front of me pulling away while I kept lightly tapping my brakes, keeping my speed and mind in a safe zone. I was prepared to be dropped at this point, but I was saved. The stoplight ahead had turned red. I quickly reached down and grabbed a shot of water. "Deep breaths," I kept telling myself.

The light went from red to green in what seemed like the blink of an eye. The symphony of pedals clipping in rang out. The thing about stop lights is that the acceleration after is brutal. There is no easy pedaling back up to speed. I kept pace again, but was in trouble. The route goes left about 1/4 mile past the light, sprint-zone time. Now, I was in no way a candidate for this title, but I knew it would deliver the KO punch to my legs. The group just splintered. There were riders spread out for 100 yards. I pedaled to my red-line for as long as I could and then it happened, my engine blew. I stopped pedaling and sat up on the bike, the international sign of, "I just bonked". I watched the pack of riders pull away, their red safety lights blinking into the distance like a runway at night. The only good part- I was only 1/2 mile from the house.

The solo ride home was both frustrating and pleasant. I was angry at being dropped, but proud to be back in the game. It was cold, and the combination of sweat and cool air sent a chill from my head down to my toes. I've missed these mornings. The result was not what I wanted, but I was motivated. If only to make it one mile further on Tuesday.

Rude Awakening

Today my training called for a "2 a Day", consisting of a 1.5 hr ride in the morning and one of Clark's favorites, the "45 min Active Recovery" spin in the afternoon. I'm hoping for a "45 min Inactive Recovery" just once. In 37 years & 3 days, the phrase "2 a day" has never been uttered to me or by me in an athletic way. The training also includes " 2 sets of 4 x 1 min. on - 2 min. off @ Zone 5". I would take the time to try and explain this to everyone, but I received a score of 16 on the math section of my ACT. I'm being completely honest when I say that I was not excited about today. Not because of the training, but because I knew it would require a 5:30 am ride. Over the past few months, my body clock has grown accustomed to not having to wake up at 4:45 and with the recent time change I knew it would be hell. But I had one thing going for me, actually against me, my riding partner.

When Douche uttered the words, "be at my house @ 5:30" I cringed. I immediately regretted even mentioning to him that I had to do this early morning ride. This would be my first semi-aggressive ride since the surgery 8 weeks ago. The remainder of the evening my brain was on overload. What route would we take, how would the leg hold up & was I prepared for the constant harassment that could be handed out? At 11:35 pm, after I knew he was asleep, I sent him a text giving some excuse about a screaming child and I wouldn't make it. Sending that message did not give me the sense of comfort I was hoping for, it made me feel worse. So at 12:11 am, I sent another text saying "I'll be there".

At 4:45 am the alarm blared like a foghorn. I jumped, rather I was kicked out of the bed by Kimberly. Getting dressed in the dark for the first time in months, I felt like a child tying his shoes for only the third time. I somehow got it together and headed outside to load up. While putting air into my tires, it happened, like clockwork. The 5:00 am phone call. I was tempted to just let it ring, but that is like throwing water onto a grease fire. " Where are you"? Now I wasn't supposed to be there for another 30 minutes. I looked over at the back door as if it was calling me back inside.

We started the ride shortly after 5:30. The first thing I noticed were the hurricane force winds that were blowing. We got out of the neighborhood and decided we would do the Peddler route. This is a 20 mile route that goes from Highland to Germantown and back. I had reminded him that I was out of shape and just off surgery, so no crazy antics or speed. This, as pretty much everything I have ever said to him, when in one ear and out the other. Once on Quince, the speed ramped up quickly. I was okay with it until we had to climb the hill over 240. It was like I had a parachute on my back. My legs and chest burned and I was weazing like a had a Dorito stuck in my throat. The next few miles went by well, but the wind was still brutal. To get some relief, we rode Germantown road from the tracks to Shelby Farms. It was all tail wind and it was perfect. We cut through Shelby Farms and then across Walnut Grove. We intended to get onto the Greenway, but we missed the turn and had to ride Farm road up to the prison to get on. This was a major disaster. We pissed off probably 10 cars . I know this because as they passed they would gun their cars like they were setting a quarter mile speed at Memphis Motor Sports Park. Holding down their horns was also another indication.

This was my first experience on the Greenway. We rode it from Shelby Farms to Graham. It was awesome. The pavement is perfectly smooth and the trees block the wind. I was surprised how good I felt at this point of the ride. I was even more surprised at the low level of harassment I received. To be honest, I kinda missed it, but it's early in the season.

We rode around 25-27 miles at a pretty good pace. Total ride time was 1.5 hrs. I spent most of the ride sucking wheel, but I didn't care. It just felt great to be back out spinning the pedals at a good pace.



And this was my view.

Decadence, Deconstructed

Caught you looking. It's mind boggling isn't it. You're wondering just what in the hell you are staring at. Well I knew what it was, and I had traveled 540 miles for a single bite. Right now, your brain is experiencing that sensation you get when you pass a wreck on the highway. Time has slowed down, your heart rate has elevated. You don't want to keep looking, but you just can't resist. You're reading and constantly looking up at the photo, WHAT IS IT? Being the ass that I can be, and also that I have discovered this new untaped writing talent, I'm going to have a David Chase moment and fade to black, leave you confused and wondering......

I turned 37 yesterday. Not a birthday of any real significance, just another year. I'm legal to drive, buy tobacco and alcohol so I guess that the next birthday that gives me anything in return is still 25 years away, that's if Social Security is still around. I had decided a while ago that I wanted to spend this birthday weekend in Chicago. I had been to Chicago before for business, but this would be pleasure only. Kimberly and I spent weeks getting everything planned. We would only have a day and a half, so we would have to be efficient with our time to do everything. With bags packed and kisses handed out to the little ones we headed out. We boarded the plane and took our typical seats on the last row of the plane next to the dumper. Thanks Delta. If these seats are my only perk for being a sky miles member I'm going to eventually begin to fly American. Our flight was a typical one, and by typical I mean that I would rather be flying with Osama Bin Laden than my wife. She hates to fly, hates! Every noise or bump is an indication that the plane is headed for a fiery grave. My arm still looks like a cheetah pattern, only with purple spots. Sorry, Honey.

We landed and went straight to the hotel to check in and hit the town. Remember, we are on a schedule. Our first destination is a Chicago landmark.



Were you expecting a photo of the Sears tower or Wrigley field? If so, I suggest you quit reading now and log onto the Travel Channel website. Funny story about the Sears tower, but that's for later. As the sign says, this is Hot Doug's & yes it does say the "Sausage Superstore". We arrived at noon and the line was already around the building. Fourty-five minutes later it was our turn to order. We had been rehearsing for 15 minutes and didn't want to mess this up. So much to choose from, would we get it right?




You're damn right we got it correct. The reason we made it our first stop was not just for the amazing dogs, it was also for that amazing basket of fries in the center of the table. You see, they only serve them on Friday and Saturday and they are fried in rendered duck fat, let me repeat, duck fat. They were hands down the best fries, sorry frites, I have ever had. It was an amazing food experience. We came and we conquered. We were happy. I will admit that we are still laughing like pre-pubescent boys at the dog located at 6 o'clock, but explanation would require I check the adult content box in the setting for this blog and I don't want to have to do that. With full stomachs we were ready to continue our tour of this great city, so we caught a cab back to the hotel and climbed into bed. It was great. The city sounded and looked amazing outside our window. We stayed in this position until dinner.

This bring us to Grahm Elliot restaurant and the mystery photo. I was very excited about this meal. I had read and seen a lot of press about this place. Hip neighborhood, cool crowd and the youngest Michelin starred chef in the US. We arrived early and sat at the bar for a cocktail. About 10 minutes later, the manager stopped by our stools with a small plate for each of us. There it was in all of its glistening amazement. The Foie Gras Popsicle, rolled in Watermelon-flavored Pop Rocks and finished w/ Sea Salt. I picked it up and held it like an actor holds an Oscar. I was stunned that it was in my possession. I took my first bite. So smooth and creamy, it was like taking a bite of a cloud. Then the party began, the Pop Rocks kicked in, the sweetness and mini explosions of flavor took over my palate. I was a 6 year old all over again for just a few moments. I loved it, I could have driven home that evening. There aren't many items in life that combine our true age and a childhood moment in one- this had accomplished that task. We later moved to a table and each enjoyed the chef's tasting menu. It was an incredible evening.

We woke up Saturday morning to a beautiful Chicago day, and a headache. Now it was time to hit the city and see some sights. After numerous cups of coffee and a few Advil, we were ready. We left the hotel and went straight to the Sears Tower. I was so excited. I'm not a big fan of heights, but I wanted to go and stand on the false floor; get the adrenaline pumping for the day. We paid 15 dollars each and rode the elevator all the way to the top. We walked to the windows and looked out over the Chicago skyline. It was beautiful and you could see for miles. We made a loop around the room to find the false floor. Where was it? It wasn't there, what the hell? I walked back around to where we began and realized something. As I looked across the skyline, I noticed a building off in the distance and it was tall, taller than the one we were in. I began to look around and noticed the words "John Hancock" a lot. We had gone to the wrong damn building. We looked at each-other and laughed. We had just spent $30 to ride up an ear popping elevator in the wrong building. At that moment we realized we should stick to what we know when we travel - food and drink. We did take a nice walk down by the river, but we never went to the Sears tower. We went to lunch at XOCO, a new restaurant by Rick Bayless. Another long line and another great meal. My wife ate a braised goat sandwich which was awesome, but I have reminded her every hour since that moment that she ate goat. I even changed my ring tone for her to a goat sound. Another peaceful late afternoon in the bed and then time for dinner.

We got all spruced up for our Saturday night meal at David Burke Primehouse. As we were waiting for the elevator on the 11th floor, the fitness door opened and Norm MacDonald walked out. Kimberly and I looked at each other. A celebrity spotting, how cool. I turned and said hello. He was very nice, told us he was in town to do a few comedy shows. He asked why we were in town; nice conversation. I told him that I followed him on Twitter and really enjoyed his tweets. He liked that. He exited the the elevator and we said our goodbyes. He even wished me a happy B-day. What a cool guy! Once the elevator doors closed, Kimberly looked at me and said "I didn't know you followed Adam Corolla on Twitter". I looked back at her and said, "Oh shit, I thought that was Norm MacDonald". Just like at the Sears tower, we could do nothing but laugh.

We got to Primehouse and began looking over the menu. I'm a steakhouse guy, so I was in heaven. We noticed a few interesting small plates called "Sticks" on the menu and one said "Bacon". Bacon on a stick, you would have to be a Communist to resist that. We told the waiter to bring it and here is what arrived.



Slap yo Momma! Gigantic hunks of cured bacon, served with black pepper and warm maple syrup. I'm thinking about starting a booth at the fair and selling these babies if anyone is interested in partnering up. But it wasn't just the bacon that we indulged in for apppetizers. We got a few more.



It was out of control. We needed one of those interventions you see on A&E- a family member to stand up and read us a letter he had written on a torn sheet of legal paper in the parking lot 5 minutes before. After appetizers we moved onto table-side Caesar salads (awesome!) and then onto the ultimate- the 55 day aged Cowboy Ribeye.



It was phenomenal. Not just the meal, the entire evening. We waddled our way back to the hotel and called it a night. We woke up the next morning and headed to the airport. I truly enjoy traveling, but I'm always excited about heading home. Back to the chaos of daily life and of three beautiful, but loud children. We got home at 2pm and I was even able to watch the final few laps of the Bristol NASCAR race. What a memorable weekend.


I knew going into this weekend the decadence of food that would be consumed. This would be my last food blowout before the serious food restriction would take front and center. It was funny that right after we finished those delicious hot dogs, Clark called to check in. How ironic. But I was honest and told him what would be going down. Literally. I'm just nervous about what my next training schedule will look like.

I said earlier that this birthday was of no real significance, but I was wrong. I realize now that every B-day is significant because it marks another year of memories made.

And for the record: 20 miles ridden today on the mountain bike. This wind is killing me!

In a Colorado Minute

No man is a failure who is enjoying life.
-William Feather

Success is focusing the full power of all you are on what you have a burning desire to achieve.
-Wilfred Peterson



Since the inception of this blog, I have contemplated if and when this post would take place. I came to the conclusion that it was necessary and the earlier the better. I enjoy writing posts that poke fun at myself and make me laugh. I don't care about sharing personal things about myself and being vulnerable. I believe it makes people relate. These traits are what have made this process so great. The fact that I'm a funny Son of a Bitch helps also. But I believe that my strongest trait is that I'm a realist. I'm not interested in any of that "the glass is half full or half empty" shit. I'm a black and white type guy. My mind tells me that anything in between is there just to stir the pot. I've found this belief to be both helpful and hurtful at times, but I do believe it has kept me humble.

When the email came acknowledging that I had been accepted to ride in this amazing event I was thrilled. I had something to work for. A positive thrown into several weeks of negatives. That was my outlook. Would I be back on the bike training right now if not for this acceptance? Absolutely not. I might be goofing around, but not training. I was told 4-6 months. That was 2 months ago. I've ridden 40 miles in the last two days. Why take the risk? Because I'm a realist. I know that if I'm not out training right now I won't have a chance, stick in a fork in me. The odd thing is that the riding has felt amazing, no pain. I'm not one of these people who would pound my chest and ride through the pain. That's not strength, that's stupidity. I'm in a walking boot for the next three weeks, and I take it off only when I'm home and when I ride. At my last doctor's visit they told me I would start rehab when the boot comes off. I've decided I can start earlier. I want this ride. I want that buckle. But I'm okay if I don't get it. With a few exceptions. We'll talk about those in a moment.

2010 Leadville 100 Facts:
1554 riders were accepted
931 finished the ride in under 12 hours
305 Did not finish
223 Did not even show up (this one scares me more than the others)
That leaves 95 riders that finished, but past time.

2011 Larkin Grisanti Facts:
Married
3 Kids
203 lbs
Restaurateur
Broken Leg
Metal Plate
10 Pins
Not a mountain bike rider

Right now, my glass is empty. Over the next five months I alone must fill it. I have amazing support from home and friends. Those are the positives, but the most important thing I have is my acceptance of not finishing. I'm good with it. I have this incredible journey that only 1499 other people in the world will get to experience this year. That's cool.

The race is not what I'm worried most about. Why worry about 100 miles at an average of 11,000' elevation? (read: sarcasm). It's the training. I know that to have a chance at finishing, I must train, everyday. That scares me. If I push everything and everyone else on the back burner for my goal, I've failed. I feel like a street performer in Jackson Square juggling 6 bowling pins. If I want that tip, I can't drop a single one.

Now to the exceptions that will piss me off...
1. I don't finish because of a mechanical failure
2. I decide to do my carbo-loading by drinking 9 Budweisers the night before
and over-sleep.
3. (This last one is what is in my head during every training session... when my
my legs and chest are burning and I think I just have to stop pedaling just for
a minute.) I finish in 12:01. It happened last year. Riders #914 & #915 finished
one minute past the official cut off. One minute.

What would be my mindset there? That is a "half full - half empty" scenario. Well, I don't believe in that shit, which is why I keep pedaling.

Essential Non-essentials

accessories

n. pl. ac·ces·so·ries

1. A subordinate or supplementary item
2. Something nonessential but desirable that contributes to an effect or result.



Whatever your hobby may be, it requires some essentials. When I looked at the scale and saw 240lbs and realized I had a second child on the way I knew it was time to get my ass in gear. I didn't want to be that father on the sideline of a school ball game wearing an untucked 3xl shirt with large pit stains. I gave running a shot first. I went to Fleet Feet, got the proper shoes, bought some shorts and a nice running shirt. I woke up the first morning all excited. I got dressed and headed to the sidewalk to stretch. I raised my left leg up and immediately hated it. Something just told me "this is gonna suck". But I kept thinking 3xl. I did my first run/walk. Mainly walk. Every time a car would pass I would duck my head not to be recognized. Let's just say I was fully aware that my stride was not "gazelle-like". I stuck with it for a short time. I even ran in a 5k, once. I actually believe that was the reason I quit. The running shorts are now neatly folded in a drawer and the running shirts are nice in the summer when I mow the grass. You know, they are sweat-wicking. I still wear the running shoes because they look cool with jeans. It was time to return to something more familiar- the bike.

When I decide to purchase something, okay anything, there is not much contemplation. I just show up and do it. When I arrived at the bike shop I was in full purchase mode. Within 45 minutes I had purchased a bike, pedals, shoes,cycling shorts, jersey, helmet, gloves, computer and water bottle. It was like a drive thru. Now these are all essential items. I came home and laid everything out. It looked good, I knew this was the one that would get me to a L instead of 2xl. Over the next few weeks I went on my 5-8 mile rides. By ride #3 I felt like an old pro. But now that I look back I realize that I might as well have been riding with all the store tags on my items. I didn't know shit. But I was exercising. As my passion grew, so did my desire. I was now a monthly receiver of numerous bike magazines. (Magazine subscriptions to your personal hobby are a necessity, right?) These subscriptions are the devil. They are only there to remind you of all the cool shit you don't have, kinda like Playboy. Page after page of new wheels, cycling shorts, helmets, computers, blah blah blah... When my rides began to lengthen so did my ego. I was ready to accessorize.

My first accessory was a cycling bib. I had heard about this amazing cycling apparel company called Rapha from "Douche". You should remember "Douche" from an earlier post. I had never heard of this company, but he told me "they are like the Prada of cycling apparel". Reason # 19 why he is called "Douche". I got online and checked Rapha out. This stuff was amazing, they had it all and it was beautiful. I found the section for cycling bibs, called my mortgage broker, took out a second mortgage and bought them. The day they arrived I ran upstairs and squeezed, yes squeezed them on. I walked into the bathroom and stood in horror. I was wearing a leotard. But they were Prada, sorry, I mean Rapha, so I was cool with it. Now I will say, they are amazing, super comfortable on long distance rides and beautifully made. (Because beauty is important when you are sweating your nuts off in the Memphis heat). As the weight dropped, I loved coming home and removing my jersey and just walking around in my bib. On days I felt really good, I would pull the shoulder straps down. It drove my wife nuts. Nuts like in a 'commit me to Bolivar' sort of way. My relationship with Rapha grew as did my credit card balance. You see, one jersey is not enough. You have to have 3-4. But then you also have to have 2-3 long sleeve for the winter and they even make one just for the summer. You see where I'm going with this. I could have gone a cheaper route, but then I would be compromising myself and my riding. That was the excuse I used at least.

My next upgrade was for my personal safety. A new helmet. Okay, I'll be honest, it wasn't for safety. It was for the fact that my first helmet looked as though I had a giant portobello mushroom on head. It most definitely had all the safety features as the new one, but it wasn't sleek enough.

Once I began to ride in the group rides I came across a common theme amongst the fast riders. They all had upgraded wheel sets. These guys were always up front. It had to be the wheels. Never could it be that they had been riding for years and all weighed 150lbs and had 5% body fat. I was convinced it was what I was lacking. Now this purchase I actually contemplated. Not to weigh the options of what wheels to by, only how to hide the price of what they cost. I bought the wheels and was immediately blown away. Not by the performance gain, but by how sweet my bike looked. I cruised to the first group ride with immense confidence. These babies were going to take me to the next level. The ride began and I spent the next hour mid pack, just where I always was. Performance gain 0, ride sweetness 1.

Now I don't want to bash on accessories. There are a lot of items out there they can make your ride faster and more comfortable. But it was one day a year ago that I saw something I think about still to this day. As I was climbing the last hill on our group ride, completely gassed, I looked at the rider infront of me. He was climbing as easily as a mountain goat. I looked down and saw his shoes. They were Teva's, fucking Teva's. He didn't even have on $28 dollar socks.

It was at that precise moment that I realized that the best accessories would be my heart and mind. If I could have the best of those two items, I would be the best rider I could be.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I just bought the new mountain bike, it's time to accessorize.

Maiden Voyage

Sometime around January 17th, my doctor at OrthoMemphis, Dr. Jameson, told me it would be 4-5 months until I could ride my bike again. Being that he came so highly recommended, this was tough to swallow. It was like being told I wouldn't be able to watch Swamp Loggers or Deadliest Catch for 3-4 months. (Those who know me will understand). I had just spent the last 8 months busting my ass on the road. I was 205 pounds, down 40 from where I started. I was riding mid pack on the 'A' ride on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I was busting out 50-60 mile rides on the weekend. As he finished telling me the news, I saw all those things melting away like a orange Push-Up pop in the summer. I told myself it wouldn't be that long, that I would be on the road in 2-3 months. My biggest fear was the weight. I didn't want to put 20 of those 40 pounds back on. I didn't weigh myself until my cast came off. To make sure the reading would be completely accurate, I stripped naked and made sure I had handled both my morning routines (sorry, but anyone that is obsessed with weight does it also). I stepped on the scale and closed my eyes. When the beeper went off, I opened one eye. 203, I had lost 2 pounds. Now that was motivation. It was the motivation I needed to start this process with a positive attitude. It is now 4 days later and I woke to what has had to have been the most beautiful day in the past 3 months. It was time. Time to saddle up and see where I stood. I gathered my gear and threw it on. It was like sliding on a custom-made suit it felt so good. I filled my bottle and aired up the tires. Everything mechanical was ready. But was I? I threw my leg over "Denali", that's what I'm calling the new addition and headed up the driveway. I was nervous. All these thoughts came rushing over me. Would the ankle be okay, how would my legs hold up, don't let it be windy and did I remember to take the Ipod off shuffle. As I pulled out of the driveway and began my first pedal session down the street I caught myself smiling. It was just as I had remembered. In that brief moment I forgot about those previous 8 months. I was just happy to be back. I spent the next 45 minutes or so just cruising. It was perfect, except for the fact that I had forgotten to take the Ipod off shuffle. ( I like Michael Buble, but he's not a great riding partner.)

This post is dedicated to Dr. Jameson at OrthoMemphis. Not just for a fantastic surgery but for telling me 4-5 months.

Boys, BMX and Banana Seats

My love for two wheels started at an early age. I wasn't the freedom or the wind through my hair and I certainly wasn't running from anything, at least I don't think. I just wanted to haul ass.



In all fairness, I guess my passion began with three wheels. Now let's talk about this picture. First, I was damn cute and was certainly dressed for a day on the road. If you don't want to wear white patent leather shoes, you got problems. That had to have been the upgraded model of big wheel because that set of "Michael Knight & Kit" handlebars are awesome. The only problem I have with this photo is that it looks as though no one had changed my diaper in about 5 hours because that thing looks a little swollen.

After a few years on the big wheel it was time to upgrade.



I'm guessing this photo was taken around 1979. I'm basing this not on my age, but on that sweet ass brown ride with the white top in the neighbors driveway. I can tell that I was really excited about this bike. But how could any 5-7 year old not be. Fire engine red, spoke wheels, fake stainless steel fenders, a kickstand and most importantly a banana seat. I don't know about you, but just saying banana seat makes me laugh. I can still remember riding this bike all day until the street lights came on and then rushing into the house hoping "C.H.i.P.s" was on tv. But this bike brought more than just joy. It brought about a passion for BMX racing. Somehow I yelled or cried enough that my parents agreed to let me give it a try. So we loaded the old banana seat into the family truckster and headed to the local track.


(Do yourself a favor and click on this picture to see it larger. It won't disappoint...)

Now if there were ever a picture that said "Let's give it a try before we commit financially", this is it. Let's break this one down. I have a white paper plate for a number plate. I think we may have gotten to the track and my parents didn't know a plate was necessary so they ran up to the Kroger and bought it and an ink pen. I have a football helmet on, a football helmet. My parents definitely were not thinking about my reputation when they forgot to take off the reflectors or maybe they thought the race would occur at night and they would act as a beacon signal if I went off the track. I'm in khakis and a rugby shirt, tucked in and buttoned all the way up. Could I breathe??? Was it not hot??? There are two things I do love about this photo. The first being the face I'm making, what is that. I had to be staring directly into the sun or trying to hold back a sneeze. The second being the fact that if they handed out a trophy for a two passenger BMX race, I was going to be the hands down winner. Remember, banana seat. I don't remember anything about the results of that race, but I knew I was hooked. My parents knew they would have to step up their game and they did.




Now I was ready to conquer the BMX world. True BMX bike, proper number plate and race helmet with visor. This ride was sweet, check out the yellow mag wheels. I'm 36 years old and I know that every boy that's around my age wanted mag wheels and I had them. This baby was 45 pounds of pure speed. The only confusing part is the outfit, it's always the outfit. Did I not own a pair of jeans and a t-shirt? My damn shirt is buttoned all the way to the top again. I think my mom may have even color coordinated my outfit to my bike for this photo. I owned this bike a long time. I continued to ride BMX and even won a few trophies. My parents still have those trophies, they cherish them. A lock of hair from my first haircut or my first report card, not so sure. But they still have the trophies. I'll admit, whenever I go to their house I run upstairs and sneak a peek of them. Still feels special. We moved to Florida around this time and my BMX career ended. The #92 came with me and I continued to ride it as much as possible. Then I got the best news ever, we were moving back to Memphis. We loaded up the U-Haul and made the 2 day drive from South Florida to Memphis. The details of that trip are a story for another time. (I still miss my blanket Mom). But as a welcome home gift, I got a new bike.



As you can see by the photo, the bike world had gone through a revolution in a short period of time. Mag wheels were now last week and colored rims were in style. The bike had front and rear brake levers and most importantly it had freewheel. Freewheel was the best, until you accidently flung it around and the teeth of your pedals caught you in the shin. You know it happened to you. I'm really glad to see that I was finally looking like a boy in this photo and not a child who was dressed to have his picture taken at Sears. Nut-hugging shorts, knee high tube socks and velcro shoes.(If you look close enough, you can see that they are Nike). I'm even giving my mom a thumbs up, how cool is that? The only weird thing about the photo is the position of the seat to my crotch area, kinda creepy. Makes me think I was unconsciously missing the banana seat.

I never got back into BMX, but I never gave up the love of my bikes. Even when I got my car I still had my Trek 8300 road bike and then by my junior year I added a mountain bike to the stable. Because I though it was hip, I took the mountain bike to college at the University of Arkansas. You won't believe this story, but it is true. I woke up the first morning of college classes, put my backpack on and pedaled to the Business building. I got there and locked my bike up ready to conquer my first college class. An hour later I walked out ready to ride back to the fraternity house and my bike was gone. The only thing that was left was the lock, still attached to the bike rack. I didn't even stop to inspect, I was so embarrassed I just walked past and went home. They never told us in orientation that if you wrapped the lock around the seat post all the stealer had to do was take the seat off, slide the lock over the tube, place the seat back on and ride away. Thanks UofA, really could have been helpful.

That brings us to the present. My passion is still alive for the bike and today I added a new one to the fleet. So without further ado, here they are.



This is my road bike. Trek Madone 5.2. This bike and I have logged a lot of miles. It's a great bike. I've done a lot of group rides and a few century rides on it. Plus it has the sweetest wheels, Zipp 404's. Way above my skill and pay level, but I love them.



Here is the new additon. The 2011 Orbea Alma H10. I picked it up today from Victory and it is beautiful. I went through my 30 minute fitting with Robert Taylor and I'm ready to roll. We have a perfect day tomorrow and this time I'm ready just to feel the wind through my hair.

Today was an off today, so no training.

This post is dedicated to my parents for keeping these photos and for always buying me bad ass bikes.

Hardware...

The Smell of Victory

I knew it was broken immediately. Mainly because I heard it snap. It was one of those weird times when you don't want to look, but I've usually only experienced those times when I cut myself in the kitchen. As I lay on my back in 7" of snow I was surprised that it didn't hurt, UNTIL 5 seconds later. The pain rushed from my leg straight through my entire body. I immediately rolled over because I was convinced I was going to vomit. The family rushed over and all I could say was "DON'T TOUCH ME". I think I laid in the snow for 10 minutes, at-least long enough that it looked and felt as though I had jumped into the lake with my clothes on. Being the stubborn man (dumb-ass) I am, I didn't want any assistance getting into the house. I hobbled in and got into my chair. The pain had come down and I had convinced myself that it was just a bad sprain. It began to swell, but not to big & it never really turned that awful black color that looks like you got frostbite from climbing Mt. Everest. I took some Advil, climbed the steps to my bed and fell asleep.

The next morning I woke up and realized I had a problem, off to the Dr. I went. An hour later my original thought was confirmed, broken. My GP handed me my X-Rays and I headed off to Ortho Memphis. (That part made me feel cool, kinda like Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse). Dr. Heck came in, looked at the X-Ray and gave me the good news. Broken fibula bone and more than likely I had torn all the tendons and ligament around my ankle. He told me it would be a week before we could decide if surgery was necessary. I selected my cast color, Livestrong Yellow. It wasn't called that, I just found it similar. 30 minutes later, I walked out with a Big Bird cast and crutches; first time in 36 years I had ever been in this position. A week went by and I went back, Big Bird removed and surgery was confirmed, Dr. Jameson would do the procedure 10 days later. So I selected cast color # 2 and headed home.



After ten days, I went in for surgery. 3 hours later I woke up in recovery feeling awesome. Another 45 minutes, and the nurse offered me a Otter Pop- I chose green- and told me to go home. I spent about the next 2 weeks high on pain killers and I watched every movie available on iTunes. It wasn't so bad. At this point, they had me in a huge splint. It was uncomfortable, really uncomfortable. I wore that splint for another week and went back for a check up. It was the first time I would get to see the results of my surgery. It was cool.



A 6 inch scar with 16 staples. I liked it. After a good viewing and then a wonderful alcohol swab scrub, it was time for another cast. I went black this time. But as an added bonus, they gave me a incredibly comfortable high fashion shoe to accompany my black cast.



I wore this high fashion accessory for another two weeks. It was completely embarassing, but at least I could walk. I marked each day on the calendar like a child waiting for X-Mas. On March 8th I woke up and ran down the steps and out the door. The day had finally arrived. No more cast. It was a moment that definitely ranked high on my list. They called me back and brought over the machine that still gives me nightmares.



Now you have to remember, this leg had not been bathed in two months. When the lady removed it she literally gagged, no lie. Then said, "Wow, that is ripe"! I thought, "Hell yeah it's ripe, but don't you see this everyday?" But I didn't care, freedom was so close I could smell it. Or maybe that was just my foot.

After another thorough alcohol scrub, I slid on my favorite sock and was ready to hit the open road.



Now I have to be honest, the only reason I posted a picture of the sock is because I hope someone from Swiftwick sees this blog and sends me a few free pairs. But I will say, they are the best socks ever. They are super comfortable and they never slide down your leg. I wear them in every situation, from exercise to wearing a suit. Oh, and if you're interested, they sell them at Victory Bicycle Studio. But enough of the corporate stuff.

That brings us to today, day 3 of freedom and training. Leg feels great. I rode on my trainer again tonight for 45 minutes. My resting heart-rate today was 75 when I began, I pushed it harder and had an average cadence of 98 and I burned 697 calories. I get tomorrow off, but I do have a big surprise waiting for me. My mountain bike arrived today, and I'm going to get fitted on it tomorrow at 2. I'll be posting pics very soon. We're going to the farm this weekend and I'll get to enjoy my first outdoor ride in almost five months. Hell yeah.

My Training Partners

Day # 2 of my training. My morning started great, I took my bazillion vitamins, ate my oatmeal and headed to work. Perfect start I was thinking to myself. My first post-cast ride the night before was fantastic, I woke up with no leg pain at all, I was ready to conquer day two. Then I walked into the kitchen and read the luncheon special board for the day, CHICKEN POT PIE. SHIT!!!! I love our chicken pot pie, love it. Why did this happen on day 2, why not day 97? So I told myself that I would be strong, I would have my fresh salad w/ oil & vinegar and fresh smoked turkey. Well that lasted all of about 45 minutes. I just couldn't pass it up- warm, creamy, with tender chicken and that flaky crust. I know your mouths are watering right now. So I caved. I let it bother me for about 2 minutes. I still have 156 days to lose 30 pounds and I'll make it up tomorrow, unless it's meatloaf day! Please lord, don't let it be meatloaf day.
I started cycling years ago to lose weight- I was 240 pounds at the time. I will never forget the first time I squeezed into my bike shorts and jersey. I almost quit right there in the dressing room of the cycling shop, but I turned opposite the mirror and sucked it up. My rides began short, mainly because I was out of breath! But as time progressed, they got longer, and by longer I mean like 10 miles. Then the harassment began. I have this friend, we will call him "Douche" to protect his identity. We started riding about the same time, but he became obsessed. He kept telling me that my silly little rides weren't going to make me any stronger, but I ignored it. When I did ride with him, I would hold his wheel for as long as I could, constantly yelling at him to slow down, but he wouldn't. This went on for months, but I began to realize that I was going faster, longer and getting stronger. He finally convinced me to begin the group rides. He rode the 'A' ride and I would hang back and wait for the 'B' ride to start. Not a Tuesday or Thursday went by that he didn't turn around as the A-group was pulling away, look back at me sitting still and call me a pussy. Out loud. One morning, I just couldn't stand it any more and I went for it. I pulled out with the big dogs. It was fast, I mean really fast, but I survived. I was never up front or took a pull; I just sat mid pack and peddled my ass off, but I made it. I was proud that morning, I felt like I was really a part of something special. I never went back to that B ride, but I will have to swallow my pride and join that group again next week.
So back to the post title. Right now, the training I'm doing is all indoors on my trainer. My only friend is that computer & my kids who are constantly trying to grab the brakes or stick their hands in the wheels. Clark has me set up this way for the first 5-6 days. He refers to it as Active Recovery Rides of 45 minutes. Notice he says "recovery". These past two night I have been sweating like a whore in church when the timer on my friend above reaches 45 minutes. Just a little note, if any of you that read this ever come to my house, I would avoid the brown rug in the office, a lot of sweat has been dropped on that baby!
Tonight's workout was really good, my heart rate pre-ride was around 90, got up to 168, I rode for 45 solid minutes at a cadence of 93-96, total mileage was 20 miles and I burned close to 650 calories. So now that I think about it, who gives a shit about that small bowl of Chicken Pot Pie, it probably made me work a little harder tonight.
I dedicate tonight's post to "Douche". Thanks for all the constant harassment over the years. You made me a better rider, both mentally and physically. See you on the road soon, Pussy.

My Inspiration

For a couple of years I had heard about this insane mountain bike race in Leadville, Co. Like most of us now do in today's age, I went to You Tube and watched some videos, thinking "these people are f-ing nuts". I actually knew a guy in my hometown that had participated & had heard how about how it was both amazing & horrifying. But I was still confused as to why someone would want to spend all that time & money to suffer for 9-12 hours climbing at elevations that made you feel as though you were breathing out of the cocktail straw they give you w/ favorite whiskey drink.

I'm an avid reader of Bicycling, Velo News, Fat Cyclist, blah blah blah & all of them had ads running about the documentary, Race Across the Sky. It was going to be playing for one night only at select theaters across the country. I went to our local Malco theatre website and saw that it was going to be playing here in Memphis. I decided to check it out, I tried to get a few friends to go, but they flaked, (some bs about kids & work & their wives)? So I went solo, which didn't feel really cool, sitting there with my Malco popcorn and coke combo, but whatever, I had to check it out.

An hour and a half later I walked out of the theatre in a daze, not do to the acting or the score of the film, but to the sheer passion and determination of these participants. I'm not talking about the elite athletes, but the weekend warriors, the riders who gather with friends and do rides that include conversation and a quick stop at the local coffee shop halfway. These people blew me away. They were from every background and every age, suffering like not many in this world could imagine, and they loved it. Some made it and some didn't. I watched in silence as grown men cried when they were told they would have to abort b/c they didn't make time cut offs and myself shed some tears as I learned the story of a lady that had been diagnosed with MS over twenty years ago that was riding. That was it, I was inspired and fired up. I wanted to suffer and cry with the masses. I raced home and got onto the Leadville website, read about the rules for signing up, paid my money and entered my name in the lottery drawing. You see, thousands sign up from all over the world and only 1500 are accepted.

Now for a little background, I'm a cyclist. I didn't just see the movie and think I could jump from the couch to 12,570 feet and 100 miles. I have been riding for a few years. It started as a hobby and became an addiction, mentally and financially. I rode group rides three days a week and even had my own personal bike trainer, Clark. (You will here alot about Clark in this blog). So I continued my training on the road bike and winter set in. Most of the time now was being spent on the trainer inside and in the gym, things were great. I had actually forgotten about the Leadville race, since the drawing wouldn't take place until February 28th, 2011.

On January 10th, we got a huge snow here in Memphis, my family and I were having a great day playing in the snow. What started as a fun snowball fight, ended in an oh shit moment. My left foot went into a hole and I heard a snap, I lay there, about to vomit as I realized that I probably broke my leg. My loving and compassionate wife told me it was probably just sprained and just prop it up, thanks Mom. The next morning I went for an X-ray & it was confirmed, broken fibular bone and most of the ligament and tendons around my ankle had torn. Are you fucking kidding me? 10 days later I had a three hour surgery that lead to a plate and 10 screws. I spent the next 6 weeks in a cast. On February 28th, I received a text from a friend asking if I had received the email confirmation from Leadville & I said I hadn't. But not 2 minutes after that call my iphone buzzed, I was in! I looked down at the leg, covered in a black cast and thought, REALLY? I spent that night thinking there was no was in hell it was possible. I called Clark the next day and gave him the news, thinking he would tell me it wasn't possible, but he didn't. He told me it would happen and we would work our ass of to make it happen. Those words inspired me as much as the participants I had watched months earlier.

That bring us to today. I had my cast cut off and was given a walking boot. I came home from work and my training began. I did 45 minutes on the trainer at an avg. of 95 cadence. It felt amazing. But not as amazing as that first shower I took after. You see, it's been two months since I was last able to take one. My training from Clark is set, my mind is motivated and I want that fucking belt buckle.

Thanks Clark.