When it clicks, it's beautiful. When it clicks, there's nothing that can hold you back and the world just flies. The music is pumping on the iPod, the wind loses all importance and there is almost no traction with the pavement. Your heart rate slides in perfectly with the beat of the music and you get that marvellous tunnel vision which allows you to shut out everything that doesn't belong - the sound of the traffic from the A6, the comments from the old guys who can't believe that there's a woman in Lycra in the Casa del Campo who isn't selling sex.
I have a new weapon in my armoury. I bought MIND GYM, by Gary Mack, and if you're looking for a great book to help you get over yourself and your mental obstacles, you could do a hell of a lot worse than this book. Carlos Sastre estimates that 90% of cycling takes place from the shoulders up, and in my case, there was a lot of work to do with that 90%.
I was not athletic when I was growing up. When I was a kid I suffered from severe athsma and allergies (not helped by carrying around the typical extra ten pounds that a lot of teenage girls get saddled with) and in the 80s, it was widely believed that athsmatics should abstain from any kind of overly aerobic exercise, should it result in an automatic trip to the Emergency ward. So I didn't really do anything. I swam competitively for five summers, something which I tried to do when I got to Saint Lawrence (and dropped within three months - couldn't handle the highly Republican, trustafarian vibe.) Except for a period of three years when I was in Toronto, and tried to lose weight and be gorgeous to get back at a couple of losers who really weren't worth the effort, I basically did nothing until I got Ellie.
Every day is a struggle to bury my self-image of being useless at sports. That's why I like cycling: it's one of the few sports (with the exception of swimming) where I don't feel like a total goof or an uncoordinated fool. It's one of the only sports where being bottom-heavy is a potential advantage - especially in a country like Spain, where everyone's so slender, bodies drawing a straight line down from the thorax to the knees, and do not always have the legs to propel themselves quickly and with force.
I wrote Yago yesterday with my results of climing La Marañosa - I did the four and a half kilometres in 11 minutes 1.7 seconds. I told Yago that I wanted to do that climb in under ten minutes before Easter. He wrote back and said that he thought it was difficult. Ah, yes, I thought: Difficult....is not impossible.
Not only do I want to have the best cycling legs in the Comunidad de Madrid, I want to have the strongest mental game going. For once in my life, I am going to be mentally unsinkable.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Down! Down! Down!
Just got back from the pharmacy. I got myself weighed in and the scale said that not only am I two centimetres taller than they told me I was at the INEF (sorry, but size DOES matter), I'm also down 1.2 kg since mid-November. I don't know how that compares with mid-December (I should have gotten myself weighed in before the excesses of Christmas) but it does mean a lower number than before.
That means that I still have just over 11 kilos (24.8 lbs) to lose before June. I look at my face in the mirror and wonder where it's going to come from. Then I sit down - ¡plaf! - and I can feel at least four areas of my body that can give it up a little more for the cause.
I wonder what I'll look like when I reach my goal weight?? If -- WHEN -- I hit goal weight, I will weigh exactly the same as I did when I was fifteen years old. Strange.
That means that I still have just over 11 kilos (24.8 lbs) to lose before June. I look at my face in the mirror and wonder where it's going to come from. Then I sit down - ¡plaf! - and I can feel at least four areas of my body that can give it up a little more for the cause.
I wonder what I'll look like when I reach my goal weight?? If -- WHEN -- I hit goal weight, I will weigh exactly the same as I did when I was fifteen years old. Strange.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
New photos!
Right. In celebration of becoming member #228 of the Club Ciclista Chamartín (http://www.clubciclistachamartin.com/), here are some shots of me with the club jersey on.
I need to get a new tripod.
Not exactly works by Beaton or Platon, but you get the point.
One thing I didn't mention yesterday - when Buje and I were riding back to Madrid yesterday we rode for a while with a half-dozen guys from the UC San Sebastián. The Sanse guys have a reputation for being real hammerheads, so I thought I did rather well to hang onto the back of the pelotón (such as it was) for five minutes.
Buje got his digs in later -- "You realize that these guys go really, really fast, right?"
And I thought: You know, the real victory with that was that I at least TRIED. A year ago, I wouldn't have even tried.
I need to get a new tripod.
Not exactly works by Beaton or Platon, but you get the point.
One thing I didn't mention yesterday - when Buje and I were riding back to Madrid yesterday we rode for a while with a half-dozen guys from the UC San Sebastián. The Sanse guys have a reputation for being real hammerheads, so I thought I did rather well to hang onto the back of the pelotón (such as it was) for five minutes.
Buje got his digs in later -- "You realize that these guys go really, really fast, right?"
And I thought: You know, the real victory with that was that I at least TRIED. A year ago, I wouldn't have even tried.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Small victories = big steps (part 1)
I hate climbing.
No., I don't hate climbing. I love climbing. Climbing shows me how much better I've gotten. Climbing is my ultimate test because it's the biggest challenge I've got. Climbing is my meter, because I get to see how good I am compared to others who don't train or who don't get out very often.
I hate training.
No damn way. I love training. A wise cycling philosopher, whose name is Bobby Julich, pointed out that even a bad day on the bike was still a helluva lot better than being stuck inside on a good day.
I hate cold weather.
There's nobody out here today, just me and Buje. No clubs, few cars, just lots of cows and sheep and patches of green which have been slightly frosted by the snow. The Cerro de San Pedro is partially shrouded by clouds which have left long, thick streaks of white in the breaks of the granite. The climb is not that big, really; it's a Cat 3 climb, 204 metres over 8 kilometres, just enough to give us a lovely view of the Guadalix River valley - a view that would be spectacular if we could see the sierra, to boot. A singular landscape, as the Spanish would say. I cleared that climb in just over half an hour, and I know that I can do better. I look forward to doing so.
No., I don't hate climbing. I love climbing. Climbing shows me how much better I've gotten. Climbing is my ultimate test because it's the biggest challenge I've got. Climbing is my meter, because I get to see how good I am compared to others who don't train or who don't get out very often.
I hate training.
No damn way. I love training. A wise cycling philosopher, whose name is Bobby Julich, pointed out that even a bad day on the bike was still a helluva lot better than being stuck inside on a good day.
I hate cold weather.
There's nobody out here today, just me and Buje. No clubs, few cars, just lots of cows and sheep and patches of green which have been slightly frosted by the snow. The Cerro de San Pedro is partially shrouded by clouds which have left long, thick streaks of white in the breaks of the granite. The climb is not that big, really; it's a Cat 3 climb, 204 metres over 8 kilometres, just enough to give us a lovely view of the Guadalix River valley - a view that would be spectacular if we could see the sierra, to boot. A singular landscape, as the Spanish would say. I cleared that climb in just over half an hour, and I know that I can do better. I look forward to doing so.
"Do or do not do. There is no 'try'."
Buje doesn't think I can do it. Part of me isn't entirely convinced I can either (245 km with four Category 1 climbs??) but the more I think of it, the more I'm convinced that I need to at least try. I have until February 16th to make up my mind, anyway. And Buje being convinced that I can't do it makes me even more determined to do it.
It's cold outside as we head out from Pedrezuela. We did ten kilometres of the old maintenance road of the north canal that brings water into Madrid, and while it was nice, it was something that I would have preferred to do on a stronger bike, like the Orbea. And then the uphill into Pedrezuela - a full kilometre of 15%, which wasn't as bad as I made it out to be, with the inevitable swearing and groaning. My heart rate didn't spike above 151 but I got to the top only feeling slightly like hell. I was bitchin' more than I was actually hurtin'.
Buje doesn't think I can do it. "You do realize that the Mariblanca is a full four kilometres of hellish grade," he says, pointing out that his Orbea Aqua comes armed with a 54x30 set of chainrings and even then he had to do almost all of the climb standing up. Buje has seen me try to get up Abantos on the Orbea, and realizes that I'm not the greatest climber ever. I'm not even a good climber. Yet.
Andrés and Susana and Yago aren't sure I can do it, either, but at least they're willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. I have six months to train and prepare for this, and if I can knock Quebrantahuesos off, the Pedro Delgado's gonna be a piece of cake, especially because I can spend most of July training for it in the mountains. (Who's up for a weekend in Segovia?)
I refuse to think about whether that's a big "if" or not. It is what it is: 245 kilometres of riding through France and the Pyrenees. There's only one way to know, and that's to do it.
It's cold outside as we head out from Pedrezuela. We did ten kilometres of the old maintenance road of the north canal that brings water into Madrid, and while it was nice, it was something that I would have preferred to do on a stronger bike, like the Orbea. And then the uphill into Pedrezuela - a full kilometre of 15%, which wasn't as bad as I made it out to be, with the inevitable swearing and groaning. My heart rate didn't spike above 151 but I got to the top only feeling slightly like hell. I was bitchin' more than I was actually hurtin'.
Buje doesn't think I can do it. "You do realize that the Mariblanca is a full four kilometres of hellish grade," he says, pointing out that his Orbea Aqua comes armed with a 54x30 set of chainrings and even then he had to do almost all of the climb standing up. Buje has seen me try to get up Abantos on the Orbea, and realizes that I'm not the greatest climber ever. I'm not even a good climber. Yet.
Andrés and Susana and Yago aren't sure I can do it, either, but at least they're willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. I have six months to train and prepare for this, and if I can knock Quebrantahuesos off, the Pedro Delgado's gonna be a piece of cake, especially because I can spend most of July training for it in the mountains. (Who's up for a weekend in Segovia?)
I refuse to think about whether that's a big "if" or not. It is what it is: 245 kilometres of riding through France and the Pyrenees. There's only one way to know, and that's to do it.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
It's a new beginning!
To give you an idea of how sure I am that none of my friends read this blog: If any of you (and I mean those of you who live in Madrid - if you're in Ottawa, you're gonna have to wait until Easter) read this, and ask me, "Hey, who's Yago?" - I will buy you lunch.
Who is Yago? Yago is Yago Alcalde, the brains behind Ciclismo y Rendimiento (http://www.ciclismoyrendimiento.com/). I read about Yago's online training system in Ciclismo a Fondo last month, and spent the weeks following seriously mulling over whether I was a good enough candidate to do it. Looking back on it now, the fears seemed silly (as all fears do, sooner or later), but there's something intimidating about asking for help. Singling yourself out for assistance is scary; most people (including me) would rather try to figure it out for themselves rather than surrender and ask for help. So I caved. I spent two days drafting and crafting an e-mail that would lay things on the line and be honest without sounding like a total idiot. And he wrote back.
I'm not sure what to expect, but at least I took the step
Who is Yago? Yago is Yago Alcalde, the brains behind Ciclismo y Rendimiento (http://www.ciclismoyrendimiento.com/). I read about Yago's online training system in Ciclismo a Fondo last month, and spent the weeks following seriously mulling over whether I was a good enough candidate to do it. Looking back on it now, the fears seemed silly (as all fears do, sooner or later), but there's something intimidating about asking for help. Singling yourself out for assistance is scary; most people (including me) would rather try to figure it out for themselves rather than surrender and ask for help. So I caved. I spent two days drafting and crafting an e-mail that would lay things on the line and be honest without sounding like a total idiot. And he wrote back.
I'm not sure what to expect, but at least I took the step
Friday, December 12, 2008
Whatever
Hola'tllamoporlodeSPORTLIFE.
He's probably somewhere between twenty-five and forty, and probably isn't entirely sober. He's calling from a cell phone because he probably doesn't want anyone - someone specific - knowing that he's calling. The first time the guy introduced himself he spoke so quickly that it took me a moment to realize he was calling about the ad that I'd placed in SPORT LIFE magazine. Not that there was much room for making mistakes. I thought I'd been pretty clear about what I was looking for - women with whom I could ride road bikes here in Madrid. Busco chicas aficionadas de carretera.
Guy Number One calls from Huesca. He calls at 11.30AM and speaks so quickly that, at first, I'm not even entirely sure that he's speaking Spanish. It takes a minute to extricate exactly WHY he's calling - he's not a female, he doesn't live in Madrid and confesses readily that he doesn't even own a bike. All right, then, I say, as the other shoe slowly drops, why exactly ARE you calling if you're lacking those three things?
Para lo que surja, he says. For whatever comes up.
Now, we're all adults here. We all know that "whatever" does NOT mean "whatever", anymore than "Want to come up for a cup of coffee?" at 2AM does not involve coffee whatsoever. We know that any man that calls from a cellphone, and not from a line with easily traceable numbers, is, as Chris Rock so memorably put it, only as faithful as his options.
I am not an option.
I am flattered....and slightly insulted. I want to believe that I'm going to meet someone someday, but I'd rather it not be in such a tawdry, tasteless manner. I want to believe that there's more that's attractive about me than the idea that I can help someone get away with something.
I am not an option. I am a rider.
He's probably somewhere between twenty-five and forty, and probably isn't entirely sober. He's calling from a cell phone because he probably doesn't want anyone - someone specific - knowing that he's calling. The first time the guy introduced himself he spoke so quickly that it took me a moment to realize he was calling about the ad that I'd placed in SPORT LIFE magazine. Not that there was much room for making mistakes. I thought I'd been pretty clear about what I was looking for - women with whom I could ride road bikes here in Madrid. Busco chicas aficionadas de carretera.
Guy Number One calls from Huesca. He calls at 11.30AM and speaks so quickly that, at first, I'm not even entirely sure that he's speaking Spanish. It takes a minute to extricate exactly WHY he's calling - he's not a female, he doesn't live in Madrid and confesses readily that he doesn't even own a bike. All right, then, I say, as the other shoe slowly drops, why exactly ARE you calling if you're lacking those three things?
Para lo que surja, he says. For whatever comes up.
Now, we're all adults here. We all know that "whatever" does NOT mean "whatever", anymore than "Want to come up for a cup of coffee?" at 2AM does not involve coffee whatsoever. We know that any man that calls from a cellphone, and not from a line with easily traceable numbers, is, as Chris Rock so memorably put it, only as faithful as his options.
I am not an option.
I am flattered....and slightly insulted. I want to believe that I'm going to meet someone someday, but I'd rather it not be in such a tawdry, tasteless manner. I want to believe that there's more that's attractive about me than the idea that I can help someone get away with something.
I am not an option. I am a rider.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Drop you like a Kleenex
I dropped him like a bad habit on Sunday. Up Pingarrón Hill we went, Antonio and Javi first and then me, plus a bunch of guys from one of the cycling clubs. Then me and The Oik. The Oik stopped to relieve himself and I took advantage of him being off.
The first time I went up Pingarrón it took me nearly 40 minutes to climb the four kilometres. I rode the Orbea and the hill kicked my ass without even trying. This, supposedly, was the hill that Alberto Contador flew up the very first time he raced a bike. And I was mortified. I hadn't done any serious riding since I got back from the Trans-Iberian, but this, this was awful. I got to the top of the hill and it felt like someone was dancing on my chest.
Not now. I have been up Pingarrón half a dozen times since then, and on Sunday I did it in just over 14 minutes. I only looked back for him twice. I do this, did this anyway, even in spite of the fact that him staying over on Friday night and staying until noon on Saturday didn't mean anything, and we both knew it, because of his lack of performance. (Ladies, if you have any doubt if a Spanish man is Really That Into You, judge him by whether he stays for coffee or not, and if his, erm, enthusiasm, among other things, is maintained.)
I don't ride fast. But I ride faster than he does going up a hill. And it will only get better from here on in.
I have no problem dropping someone who didn't think twice about dropping me.
I mean, if he had Really Been That Into Me, I probably wouldn't have waited. Much.
But from now on, The Oik is just enough another face in the pelotón.
The first time I went up Pingarrón it took me nearly 40 minutes to climb the four kilometres. I rode the Orbea and the hill kicked my ass without even trying. This, supposedly, was the hill that Alberto Contador flew up the very first time he raced a bike. And I was mortified. I hadn't done any serious riding since I got back from the Trans-Iberian, but this, this was awful. I got to the top of the hill and it felt like someone was dancing on my chest.
Not now. I have been up Pingarrón half a dozen times since then, and on Sunday I did it in just over 14 minutes. I only looked back for him twice. I do this, did this anyway, even in spite of the fact that him staying over on Friday night and staying until noon on Saturday didn't mean anything, and we both knew it, because of his lack of performance. (Ladies, if you have any doubt if a Spanish man is Really That Into You, judge him by whether he stays for coffee or not, and if his, erm, enthusiasm, among other things, is maintained.)
I don't ride fast. But I ride faster than he does going up a hill. And it will only get better from here on in.
I have no problem dropping someone who didn't think twice about dropping me.
I mean, if he had Really Been That Into Me, I probably wouldn't have waited. Much.
But from now on, The Oik is just enough another face in the pelotón.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
