January 3, 2016 § 20 Comments
Man it felt good to get off that fucking plane and wait for the shuttle bus and fork over $75 for three days’ of parking and hit the freeway and dump my one backpack of shit on the bed and to finally be home.
The flight was uneventful except for the stewardess who was chatting in the galley with her friend when I came up to wait for the toilet. She looked at my hoodie and shaggy beard and limp. “Stay right where you’re at,” she commanded.
“Where else would I stay? Someone’s already in the shitter.”
“Don’t cross that line.”
“What line?” I looked at the floor. “There’s no line.”
“The imaginary plane of the galley,” she ordered.
“Like in football?”
She was moving over to the intercom, preparing to call the on-board marshal, I suppose, or maybe my Mom. “Hello, Mrs. Davidson? We have your son here in the rear galley of Southwest Flight 1006 to LAX and he’s being obstreperous.”
My Mom always loved that word. “Well you tell him I’ll be right up and he’s in TROUBLE.”
I guess the fearful look on my face occasioned by the thought that Mom would beam herself up to the galley communicated to the stewardess that she had buffaloed me, so with a stern glance that said, “Buy a razor!” she went back to her conversation about the size of another stewardess’s wedding ring.
Back at the apartment I was able to break imaginary planes right and left. I shattered the imaginary plane of the shitter, of the kitchen, of the balcony, and of my beloved bed with the indentation on the left side that, after almost twenty years, has formed one of those indelible body-forming outlines like those indentations in the sand of the high Chilean desert that are visible from the air and have been undisturbed for thousands of years.
Pretty soon it became clear that after sitting on my butt for three days in Austin I had regressed sufficiently to the mean to be able to lift my left leg over the top tube and I could therefore ride my bike. I dressed up and took it outside, with Mrs. WM running after me.
“I takin’ onna picture!” she hollered. “Don’t go fallin’ onna pavement pelvic place again!” she said as I wobbled off. “Your butt lookin’ narrow!” was the last thing I heard her say.
Which was funny because generally the only people who comment about my appearance are people who are shorter than I am. I know a guy named Ed who is 6-7 and he has never said anything about how anyone looks, ever. This is because when you are 6-7, you flat fuggin’ win. You could be wearing a clown suit and a tutu, but when you’re the tallest guy in the room and probably the county, you win. So all the shorter people peck at your ankles and criticize your beard or your old shoes or your mismatched socks, but bottom line is that they’re just sour about not having eaten enough red meat as kids, or having gotten the wrong genes, or having smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too much coffee before puberty.
Still, I started the ride kind of worried about my narrow butt. What did she mean, exactly? That it was too skinny? If so, wouldn’t she have said it was a skinny butt? Maybe she meant that it was narrow along the east-west axis but droopy on the north-south alignment. Eccch. That didn’t sound very appealing.
After a few minutes, though, I quit worrying. I was on my bike and on the road. Again.END
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June 11, 2015 § 20 Comments
I hate Cheerios and always have. When I was a kid I disliked the absence of purple, green, and yellow marshmallows such as were featured in Kaboom! and Lucky Charms and other healthful, sugar-infused breakfast choices for growing bodies and developing teeth. Cheerios were boring.
As an adolescent I despised the name. What the hell was cheery about getting up the morning and having to eat something soaked in a bowl of cold milk?
Now that I’m a really grouchy old man there is no food more detestable than Cheerios, or at least that was true in the month of May, in the year of Before Cheerios, or B.C. In May, B.C., we had Cheerios up on the shelf because my youngest son, who turns 18 shortly, eats them for breakfast.
Since all families engage in various forms of food poaching, especially when there’s only one bar of chocolate left, or only enough ice cream for one bowl, my youngest never had to worry about anyone poaching his Cheerios. But that was the B.C. era.
Several days ago Mrs. WM left with Junior for a months-long trip to the Far East. Now we are in the month of June, After Departure, or A.D, and one thing I can tell you is this: I’m really hungry.
In years 1-29 B.C., our fridge was always full to bursting. After less than a week into the year 1 A.D., it looks like this:
Now the first thing this picture should make you think is, “How does a family exist with a $325 refrigerator?” The second, of course, is that getting up in the middle of the night with hunger pangs, staggering to the fridge only to be faced with a pint of heavy cream, some vinegar, a few onions, a head of lettuce,some eggs, last night’s spaghetti, some condiments, and a jug of milk is cause for an immediate trip to the all-night supermarket. (The big plastic thing on the right is some kind of fermenting Japanese vegetable that I had to swear not to touch, i.e. toss, in Mrs. WM’s absence. I swore, but then again I’m a notorious liar.)
However, the need for food is balanced by an almost superhuman cheapness on my part and a commitment to eating everything before I buy anything. In addition to having a somewhat reduced grocery bill since 1 A.D. (daily grocery bill dropped from $25/day to $7 over 7 days), the other big difference between the B.C. era and the A.D. era is that I’ve lost five pounds and become giddy if I have to stand more than five minutes at a time.
People who claim that they cannot lose weight should come spend a few days here and try to fatten up on a raw onion dabbed with Stubbs Barbecue Sauce and nori sprinkles.
Most of all, they should try to fatten up on Cheerios. That’s what I’ve been reduced to eating in the morning, a single measured cup of Honey Nut Cheerios with a quarter-cup of almonds and a cup of milk. That was until three days ago, when we temporarily ran out of milk and I had to eat the Cheerios dry, the most loathsome food in the world, with salty almonds for breakfast.
My eldest son and I made a shopping list yesterday. It looked like this:
- Milk, 2%, gallon
Then we went to the store after dinner and made our grocery purchase for the week. It was a cool evening, and it’s a ten-minute walk to the store. I had to lie down three times before we got there. On the way back home he put his big arm around my shoulders.
“Love you, Dad,” he said.
“Love you too, son,” I answered.
Cheerios or not, the year 1 A.D. isn’t turning out so bad after all.
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May 31, 2015 § 31 Comments
Early morning, around 4:30 or so, is my favorite time of day because of coffee and breakfast. The rest of the day I morosely drink my java bitter and joylessly and pitch black, but the first cup is when I allow myself a dollop of heavy cream mixed with a dollop of whole milk. Fat plus the pungent smell of the fresh grounds plus caffeine equals yum.
Then there’s breakfast which is fruit and oatmeal or yogurt with nuts and more yum.
Since Mrs. WM is leaving for the wilds of Japan shortly, she has been reminding me that without her I will starve. “What you gonna eat?” she demands with a satisfied smile. “You gonna hungry all day.”
“I’m hungry all day anyway. And peanut butter.”
“You can’t onna peanut butter for breakfast lunchin dinner.”
“You can’t onna Domino’s every day,” she added.
“That’s true, too.”
“So whatchu gonna do?” she will triumphantly smile as she waltzes off to Zumba in her cute green shoes.
That question bothered me, so for the first time in a few years I opened one of the kitchen cabinets while she was off doing her obasan-dance class. The only place more off limits for me than the panty drawer is the cupboard.
I was surprised to find that in the first cabinet there weren’t any dishes, but rather fifteen boxes of spaghetti. Even I can cook spaghetti. My research revealed more surprises. Eight jars of chipotle salsa. Three jars of Bonne Maman raspberry jam and two of marmalade, one from Dean’s wine farm in San Diego.
Twenty-three packs of Japanese instant ramen, the good stuff, and fourteen packages of House curry. Twelve big cans of tomatoes. Four big bags of rice and three jars of Nutella. What is Nutella?
My search took me into the hall closet where I found … more pasta, a box of crackers, two boxes of cereal, canned corn, and a secret stash of peanut butter, which no one eats except me.
I took all this stuff and laid it out on the dining table, which it covered. There was enough food here for an Arctic expedition and I hadn’t even screwed up my courage to look in the fridge, a place I was allowed to extract milk from but from where I am otherwise banned, especially behind the walls.
What are the behind the walls? Mrs. WM stocks the fridge the same way she stocks the crockery cabinets with pasta: She crams it all in. There is a narrow front ledge with milk and yogurt and a plastic carton of olives but behind that each shelf is a solid wall that must be unpacked to learn what is behind, say, the giant bags of celery, a food no one here eats.
I unpacked the walls and found many things: Kimchee, my beloved kimchee! Baby carrots, more celery, apples, vintage raspberries that were covered in mold, more celery, a half-eaten tub of hummus, old bread, many jars of opened chipotle salsa, and a huge tub of meat sauce. The crisper drawers were even more amazing. Bacon, sausage, more celery, onions, shallots, tubs of miso, and thank dog, more celery.
By now it was lunchtime and Mrs. WM was due home from Zumba. I took out some celery, poured some canned corn into a small bowl, cracked out a jar of peanut butter and a slice of bread, and opened up the Nutella stuff. It looked nasty but there might be some synergy there with the peanut butter, I thought, smearing the peanut butter and Nutella on a banana.
There was! Holy crap! This Nutella stuff is the shit!
Mrs. WM came home to find me happily ensconced in my treasure trove, and she was none too pleased, not just about the sense of pantry violation and my expose’ of her somewhat haphazard grocery shopping habits, but worse, the obvious fact that whatever happened to me between now and September, it wouldn’t be starvation.
“You can’t gonna ride onna bicycle eatin’ Nutella spaghetti and butter and salsa,” she said.
“Watch me,” I said, munching happily. “Just watch me.”
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May 8, 2015 § 28 Comments
When I was young I was taller and didn’t have a weight problem. Now I’ve shrunk at least an inch and have for years been engaged in the mid-life Battle of the Bulge. Of course at 51, mid-life is over as 102 isn’t in my genes or my game plan.
With the exception of runway models, jockeys, and wrestlers, few people obsess about their weight as much cyclists. Even though the rest of the world generally looks at us and says, “Fit,” we invariably look at each other, and especially ourselves, and say, “Fat.”
Of course in the Old Person racing categories, weight is largely irrelevant in crit racing, the predominant race type. A certain champion who shall remain nameless regularly smashes everyone even though he barely fits into his skinsuit without a hoist and two giant, greased shovels. He is very jolly about it, too, and he should be, because half of the 84 people he just smashed are fanatical weight obsessives, which is to say completely fuggin’ miserable. He not only gets to win, he obviously gets to eat, and eat again.
In road races weight plays a role, but not really the way you might think. In the hardest climbing races of the season, the old farts in contention are indeed lean, and one or three, who shall also remain nameless, have the terrible stunted and corpse-like figure of someone who has wasted away for years in a prison camp. Gaunt, bony, stringy, and not-good-to-eat-even-when-cooked is how these guys look.
What’s instructive is that when it comes to getting on the hilly road race podiums, it’s always the same guys, give or take a manorexic, which means that the other forty riders who really are starving themselves in preparation for their DNF or 28th placing are not getting any meaningful benefit from their weight obsession and diet misery. Why not just have another helping of butter to go with your ice cream bacon burger and be satisfied with 30th, or with being the 10th-placed DNF, or even the 1st-placed DNS?
Answer: Because weight obsession is another of the simulacra that, along with full carbon wheels that are 100% carbon, fosters the illusion of “We’re pro, too.”
In the past my dieting has followed the pattern of all diets: Quit eating and quit big, wait until the body begins to digest itself, declare success on the scales along with a 50% drop in power, daily energy, and sex drive (make that 95% for the last one, okay, 99%), do a couple of races at the new Cooked Chicken Chris Froome weight, DNF, check into the ICU for intravenous fluids, and then as soon as possible hop back on the burger-and-fries express.
Of course like any problem that you’ve had for a long time, it can’t really function unless the people around you have adapted to it. They are called enablers; mine is Mrs. WM, and she enables me thus:
Me: “I’m going on another diet. Nothing but apples, water cress, and almond skins.”
Mrs. WM: “Okay.”
Me: [three hours later] “I’m tired.”
Mrs. WM: “You want me to fix you a snack?” The alleged snack, of course, has already been fixed, and it is a three-course, 6,500-kcal meal.
Me: [longingly] “Okay. But only a small half-plate.”
Mrs. WM: [shoves fully loaded half-plate in my face] “You gonna get onna wiener droopies if you don’t keep eatin’.”
Me: [after fifth half-plate, groaning] “Dammit! I didn’t want to eat all that!”
Mrs. WM: “Don’t holler onna me! If you don’t wanna be eatin’ don’t be chewin’.”
Throughout the diet, each day of which begins with the utter hell of awakening with the thought of “Diet,” Mrs. WM punctuates every Box Moment of the day with, “You wanna eat some —- ?” The “some” is freshly baked bread, or avocado dip with chips, or bacon-wrapped asparagus, or ice cream bacon burgers topped with carbon sprinkles.
The “Box Moment” is that moment of hunger pain during which, if you want the diet to succeed, you have to crawl inside the box and suffer the hunger. It is the Box Moments, strung together, that lose the weight, and they are about as much fun as eye surgery with an ice pick, only less.
So my enabler makes the diet doubly hard because I not only have to endure the Box Moments but I also have to refuse the mouth-watering fare. What diet can survive this dual assault? None.
In other words, I’m 12 pounds down and have begun digesting bone and hair. And I’m hungry. And we’re all out of water cress.
Where the hell is my enabler?
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March 1, 2015 § 52 Comments
One of my friends in the “industry” sent me this link to a review of Wal-Mart skateboards. Since the sound on my brand new HP computer is already broken, it took me a couple of days to get around to viewing it. When I finally saw the video, well, let’s just say you don’t need the volume. Two skateboard dudes take turns jumping off concrete stairs on cheap-ass, defectively designed products that are marketed to little kids.
The boards fail catastrophically. If you have kids, grandkids, know anyone who has kids, or were once yourself a kid, this video will scare the hell out of you.
I see this a lot in the bike “industry” as well. I love it when people call it “the industry” because it sounds like a huge conglomeration of space-age manufacturing facilities, globally designing, testing, marketing, and retailing sophisticated services and products, and it doesn’t sound like some smelly old unemployed guy in his underwear, hunched over his computer screen in his mom’s basement sipping his third cup of coffee after awaking at noon to put out his bicycle industry blog. In short, it doesn’t sound like Steve Tilford.
Fact is, part of the bike industry revolves around the same kind of deadly, low-quality, defective products that Wal-Mart loves to sell on its skateboard shelves. Full carbon wheels made of 100% carbon that disassemble on steep descents when ridden by over-the-weight-limit riders, a weight that is often “super plus” sizes like 190 or 200 pounds–weights that are completely normal for certain body types. New generation disc brakes (always the front) that mysteriously stop working. Front fork failures. And of course my personal favorite, a Specialized tire that was slightly non-round at the bead, which meant that it would seat and inflate, then blow off the rim once you started going downhill.
“Oh, you tore your face off and spent a month in the ICU like the guy who runs my sister publication at Red Kite Bore while exhibiting your descending skills down Las Flores? Here, have another tire. It’s on us.”
In addition to the physical danger of product failure, there’s the fraud that occurs in the advertising of such products. Mrs. WM likes to go to the Korean spa around the corner. It’s a place where chubby middle-aged women, Asian and non, go to sweat away a few pounds of water weight while chowing down on the pork noodles and ice cream. The key thing about the Korean spa is that you aren’t allowed to wear clothes.
The other day I went to pick her up after her day-long bathing session and she was hopping mad. “I’m so onna sick of these cheaters,” she said.
“Yes, they are cheaters.”
“The blonde bathing ladies, all coming onna spa dressed up all onna fancy with a pretty blonde hair.”
“I didn’t know you had it in for blondes.”
“I like onna blonde hair it’s pretty hair but then they are takin’ off onna bottoms and it’s all black like a parking lot in a Wal-Mart, that’s a fake advertising.”
“That’s what I’m saying. If I was a boy and getting all happy at a pretty blonde lady and she’s dropping off onna her bottoms and it’s all a black patch like a motor oil I’m gonna cry and ask for a moneyback.”
As usual, Mrs. WM had a great point. Nobody wants to pay for blonde and get black, or pay for black and get blonde, or pay for carbon and get rim failure at 50 mph going down Tuna Canyon.
Super products that have been tested and that work make a difference, and yep, they cost more. In a pinch, and when you’re racing your bike there’s always a pinch, good products can make the difference between a bad bicycle falling off incident and losing your eyesight. Just ask Ronnie Toth, who would have been blinded without his performance glasses, made of course by SPY Optic. Save a few bucks and get a cheaper brand? The worst that could happen is, well, you go blind.
Quality matters. Choose wisely.
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March 25, 2014 § 17 Comments
“Here!” Mrs. WM said accusatorially, flinging the black Pearl Izumi base layer tee across the bed. “Smell onna that!”
I picked it up and took a whiff. “Kinda gamey, huh?”
“It ain’t no game! Itsa ammonia smell from your stinky underparts!”
“You mean my underarms. Not ‘underparts.'”
“Itsa stinky onna underarms, too. How come you such a stinker? I washed onna your bikin’ undershirts three times and still onna nasty old stale ammonia stinky underparts. It’s infecting onna other clothes inna laundry. Itsa infecting onna my bras and underpants so I can’t onna wash ’em together. How come I gotta do extra separate washing loads because of your stinkyparts? How come?”
“Honey, I’m a man. And I exercise a lot. So, I guess I stink. But I read an article on Google News that says men who are super clean are less sexy than guys who have, you know, a kind of ‘manly’ smell about them.”
She turned up her nose. “Sexy stinky? Thatsa gross. I like a sexy clean.”
“But guys work out and they sweat and they smell. It’s just the way we are.”
“I do onna Zumba exercise an’ you wanna know what?”
“After I get onna body sweat after booty shakin’, you wanna know what I do?”
“I take onna bath! How come you can’t take onna bath after bikin’ and how come you can’t use a underparts deodorant stick before you going onna bikin’? I got you fifteen underparts smell sticks and you ain’t usin’ up even one of ’em.”
“I hate deodorant. Plus, all those chemicals right next to the lymph nodes in your armpits is not healthy. Probably causes cancer.”
“You hate onna deodorant but everybody else hatin’ on your stinkyparts. Every time you pointin’ or liftin’ up your skinny arm itsa big poison gas cloud comin’ out onna your shirt sleeves makin’ everybody can’t breathe without makin’ screwed up face. Itsa nasty.”
“I still think those chemicals might cause cancer, the way they get absorbed by your lymph nodes and distributed throughout the body. Ten years from now we’ll find out that stuff is worse than lead poisoning.”
“You’re standin’ inna elevator old Mr. Stinkyparts and I’m tellin’ you everybody wishin’ they had cancer and was dead by it so they don’t have to be there with tears runnin’ outta their eyes because of stinky.”
“Okay, I get it. I smell bad. Anything else?”
“Anything else is jus one thing. Wear onna deodorant and quit infectin’ onna my underwear inna laundry basket.”
“Okay. I promise.”
She smiled. “I’m gonna take a shower and get clean. You should get onna clean, too.”
Sounded kind of like an invitation.
June 14, 2013 § 18 Comments
I’ve been racing dirty.
There. I said it.
The signs have been out there for a while, but I thought people wouldn’t connect the dots, especially since I’ve been such a vocal advocate for clean cycling. But the thing that pushed me to confess, aside from my conscience, was an email from a friend. “It doesn’t add up, dude. Why don’t you come clean?”
The “it” he was referring to was a series of eyebrow-raising results, starting with a CBR crit at the end of last year where I got tenth out of a break that included some pretty phenomenal competition.
Then, this year I finished Boulevard with the group. Typically I get dropped on the first lap. Next was a third place crit finish, 50+ CBR. Icing on the cake was third place last week, where I overplayed my hand by riding in every break and collecting three primes.
Now that I’ve confessed, I’m going to do what others who’ve been caught most often refuse to do: I’m going to explain how an older masters racer goes from racing clean to racing dirty. It’s not a pretty story.
The problem is, of course, rooted in my childhood
When I was a little kid, I hated taking baths. Getting me wet and soaped down was always what my mom called a “production.” After cajoling, threatening, chasing, and finally manhandling me into the tub, a process that took a solid hour and was utterly exhausting to a woman with already frayed nerves, once I was in, I was equally hard to get out.
My brother and I would have water wars, spill most of the tub water out onto the mildewy tile, and leave the large white porcelain claw-footed bath with a thick black grease ring that took a can of Ajax and a bad case of elbow tendinitis to remove. If she could get me bathed twice a month it was a good month. In the summertime the success rate was even lower.
Why was I such a filthy, dirty little kid? Because I was from Texas, because we didn’t have a TV, because I was always outside, because I was always barefoot, and because of Fletcher.
When there’s a funny smell…blame it on the dog
Fletcher was our mixed German Shepherd – Airedale – Snipsnsnails mutt who rescued us when we went to the La Marque ASPCA to get adopted by a pet. Fletcher grew up into a rather large mammal, and like every dog in Texas from his generation, that meant he had an even larger contingent of fleas.
Dogs, yes, used to have fleas. There were no magical flea collars, or special flea-icide that you rubbed into their coat, and there sure as hell weren’t any mobile on-demand mutt washers painted pink with cute names like “Poochy Pedicures” or “Scrub-a-Dub Doggie.”
In those days, the only way to kill the fleas was with a garden hose and a box of flea powder made by DuPont or Dow, a chemical so strong it would make your fingers rot off, or dissolve the enamel on your teeth when you added it to the bathub gin, but that never, ever, ever killed one single solitary flea.
Instead, the lethal flea powder made the fleas stronger, bigger, jumpier, and supercharged their flea libidos such that after the flea bath Fletcher would, within days, have twice as many as he did before the rubdown. Since Fletcher slept in my bed and on the couch, and since I laid and played with him on the floor, and in the grass, and in the mud, I, too, was covered in fleas.
Many was the lazy summer afternoon when my brother and I would sit on the white couch and catch fleas, expertly laying them on their side, up against the hard edge of our fingernails as we popped them in half for having the audacity to bite us. In sum, Fletcher was a filthy, dirty dog, and not just because of fleas.
He was also especially nasty because he was constantly licking his balls. Nowadays the first matter of business when you get a dog is to whack off his gonads, but not in 1968. Dogs in those days had balls, and big dogs had big ones. Dogs grew to maturity with their nuts intact. Fletcher’s balls were big and purple and of all his body parts, they were the one that never got bitten by a flea. He licked and slurped and kept those things scrupulously clean, and woe betide the flea who tried to suck the blood out of either of those big doggie nuts. Whatever else you could have said about Fletcher, you couldn’t question his priorities.
Of course, in addition to constantly licking his balls, Fletcher would often lick us boys as well, on the hands if we were eating something, on the face if he saw a bit of peanut butter that hadn’t made it down the gullet, or on the legs if he just needed some salt. So I grew up, I suppose, in addition to having fleas, with a protective layer of dirty dog slime that covered me from head to toe.
As a side note, and in confirmation of what recent studies suggest, suffice it to say that I never got sick.
When the boy becomes a man
I cruised through elementary school a dirty and greasy little urchin and never thought much about it. Then, in seventh grade, we were sitting in the cafeteria at Jane Long Junior High, and the guys started talking. It was 1978, and boys had long hair.
First was Danny Martin, who had long, black, shimmering, beautiful hair. “When do you shower?” he asked Steve Wilson, who had long, shiny bronze hair.
“Before school, for sure.”
“Me, too,” said Danny.
Bill White, who had long, silky, blonde hair, piped up. “I shower at night, too. But I only shampoo in the morning.”
Everybody looked at me, including Glynis Wilson, the lovely girl with the gorgeous long hair. I stammered. “Uh, only in the, uh, morning,” I said.
A fiery curtain of red started at my neck and enveloped my entire head as I realized I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d bathed. In my entire life I’d never showered. That was for girls. Then I looked at Glynis and a light went on. Maybe girls weren’t so bad…
If I could have covered my head in a bag the rest of the day, I would have. I rushed home and ran to the bathroom. There, staring out at me from the mirror was an oily face topped with a rat’s nest of long, thick, matted, greasy hair. I jumped into the shower. I washed my hair. And I never intentionally missed a morning shower for the next thirty-six years.
When I started racing my bicycle in 1984, I raced clean, and I believe that most of the peloton did, too. There was always the dirty racer here and there, but for most of us there were too many compelling practical reasons to stay clean.
First and foremost were the shorts. Word was that if you wore the same shorts for even two days running, you’d end up with butt boils and ass chancres and festering saddle sores the size of a fried egg. That scared us. So we washed ourselves, and we washed our shorts.
Second of all was the stink thing. We were young men, and we smelled rather badly rather quickly. Unlike the halcyon years of little boydom, when I could go unbathed for weeks and never smell much worse than a mild case of mildew, all that changed with puberty.
Any mom who’s opened the closed door of a teenage son’s room knows this smell. It’s the dank, rank, febrile, fertile smell of boymones, those chemicals that lace everything they touch with the strong smell of reproduction. Stick a young man on a bike, make him pedal around in the hot Texas sun for a few hours, and you’ll wind up with a case of the Serious Stanks, the noxious B.O. that screams “I’m in France!” or “Next we invade Rome!”
Yeah. That smell.
So between the stink and the sores, it just didn’t make sense to race dirty. And I didn’t. For over thirty years I rode clean.
When the levee breaks
I have to admit, though, that it was frustrating, especially as I got older, slower, weaker, and more stupid. People who had once begged for mercy on my mighty wheel now came around me barely cracking a sweat. Was I that slow? Had my decline in my 40’s been that rapid? Was that massive sucking sound at the end of every chain gang me?
I tried everything. Diets. Power meters. I once spoke with a coach. I even talked to a guy who knew someone who had been properly fitted on a bike. I traded in my steel for carbon. Wool for lycra. I buried myself in the physics and metrics of performance, with the singular goal of cycling success. But the only compromise I refused to make was riding dirty. I’d win clean or I’d not win at all.
But then I’d look around and see some dude who wasn’t nearly as experienced, who didn’t train nearly as hard, and he’d spank me without even trying. I knew those guys were dirty, and I finally decided, if just to prove it to myself, that if I were as dirty as they, then I could win, too.
The long descent into corruption
The first thing I learned about racing dirty is that you don’t get fried egg-sized saddle sores. That’s just a fairy tale they use to scare away the goody two-shoes and keep them from going to the dark side. I found that you could wear the same pair of shorts three, four, five times (six if you were Brad House), with no ill effects.
Riding dirty wasn’t so bad, and the money you saved on laundry could go straight to gas money and entry fees. That’s how the system works. Sad, but true.
The other big fear riders have about riding dirty is that they’ll smell bad. This is true for the young dudes, but old fellows lose that stink of youth starting about age 40, and by 45 the testosterone odor has been completely replaced by Ben Gay. You can sweat for days on end and go to bed with a salt crust encasing your entire skin and it will only barely out-duel the smell of those joint creams and diaper balms.
In short, I got on the dirty racing program, and it worked. Even though you don’t smell that bad, it’s bad enough for guys not to want to draft off you, or at least not to draft too closely. And once I knew the secret, I could immediately tell who else was riding dirty, and who was riding clean. That’s how it is when you’re on the program. And it would shock you to hear some of the names.
Anyway, I’ve tried it and I’ve had enough. It’s time for Mrs. WM to let me move back in from the porch. From now on I’m going back to riding clean. But if there’s real money or prestige on the line, you just never know…