Horses. Yes, I said it: horses.
I often think about cycling, and how I may be faster at it, and one thing that comes to my mind is ponies. I mean, ponies run fast, right? There is obviously a reason for this. This lizard was compelled to investigate.
The first thing my research revealed was that horses can have like...700 lbs of muscle on them. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure a 560 lb increase in my lean body mass would be detrimental to my performance. That is my scientific opinion, though, so maybe it is wrong and you should go do it.
I was not to be swayed by this minor mishap, though--my quest for knowledge was not to be stopped! I listed all the things horses do, and how they may equate to MUSCULAR POWER. Here they are:
1) EAT CARROTS
I do this occasionally, but the key difference is that I get my own carrots, and horses have the carrots fed to them by adoring fans like they are delicious treats.
PERFORMANCE TIP: hire someone to stick carrots into your mouth, and pat your nose.
2) WHINNY
Horses often make a giggly exhaling sound. I am convinced that this is some sort of horse mantra that, like, decreases stress or something. You know, like horse yoga.
PERFORMANCE TIP: At random intervals, make a very loud and unsettling sound. You will receive bonus points if there are strangers around.
3) ADULATION/PRAISE
When a human wants a horse to do something, they do not make an angry face and stomp around aggressively. Rather, they smile, talk softly, and give the horse a nice pat on the head.
PERFORMANCE TIP: I find that this works quite well when I would like to make myself go faster: I say, "Yes, that is a good lizard! U TRY HARDER NAO PLX." rather than, "U R A FAT FAT!!!! U SUCK." Yes, the internet has made me think in garbled half-text english. it is a casualty of our technological era.
4) OATS
Horses are always shoveling large portions of dry oats into their mouths. In fact, I have next met a horse that was not willing to let me rub his nose in exchange for an oatmeal treat. IS THIS REAL???
PERFORMANCE TIP: Put oatmeal in your mouth copiously.
5) TWO NAMES
Race horses often have a long, ridiculous name to which they only respond while they are racing, and then a more common, easy-to-say name. Like, a horse can simultaneously be "Don Juan Giovani Nightprancer Jingleslap" and "Bill."
PERFORMANCE TIP: Horses have perfected the art of separating their "casual" selves from their "WARRIORRRRRRR" Ke$ha battle-doing selves. Give yourself a ridiculous nickname and form a separate identity to use while you race. For maximum effectiveness, do not respond to your name, and develop a strange accent.
6) FOUR LEGS
Horses have four legs. Really, google it.
PERFORMANCE TIP: I am sure they could somehow surgically figure this out. Potential problem: leg-implant doping?
7) VERY LARGE NOSTRILS
Clearly, horses have gigantor nostrils. This must allow for an increased uptake of oxygen, which in turn supplies all 720 lbs of their musculature with...science.
PERFORMANCE TIP: Your face is not important. With a sharp object, carefully make your nostrils twice as large. This will be painful, but I think you can do it.
8) HAY
I noticed that horses do not sleep in beds. I mean...they don't, do they?
PERFORMANCE TIP: Sell your double bed, and run out and buy some hay bales. If you are like me, and are violently allergic to hay, you should also invest in a plastic body suit and some claritin.
9) COVERED IN HAIR
Horses entire bodies have little hairs protruding randomly. To the untrained eye, this may seem excessive; however, it is obvious that it is an aerodynamic enhancement of nature.
PERFORMANCE TIP: collect all of your hair. Then, glue it to your body. You know, like a horse.
10) TAILS
Horses have tails. I really was stumped by this feature at first: is it a rudder, for steering? Perhaps it acts as a sort of weather vane, determining currents of wind? Then, it dawned on me: tails are just meant to look cool.
PERFORMANCE TIP: Add as many superflous "cool" things to your arsenal as possible. This includes, but is not limited to: disgustingly expensive bikes, water bottles that match your shoes, shoes that match your helmet, helmets that match your face, sunglasses with interchangeable lenses, tiny flasks filled with sugar paste, etc etc etc etc etc.
In short: Ponies know what is up. See the pony. Be the pony.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Sunday, January 20, 2013
To The Man in the Red Corvette, c/o The Internet
Dear Man in the Red Corvette,
Hello. We met only briefly, but you might remember me--I was the person on the bike that you buzzed with your side-view mirror! Again, I know it was short-lived, but I really felt the connection--didn't you?
At the risk of sounding cynical, Mr. Man, I'll begin by saying that I know you. Or, at least, that I know your kind. You're kind of old, but not that old; your hair has begun to gray and you typically have a little bit of a belly paunch. You think an awful lot of yourself; dropping $80,000 on a car isn't much of an indicator for self-loathing. You probably work someplace that picks at the human parts of your soul like a scab. You, like so many of your generation, have been taught to dump everything into something that means nothing. But they pay you well enough--and this, in turn, has left you empty.
In my experience, limited though it may be, people like you need to drive like you do, taking to the streets with your racing stripes, engine screaming; you dare anyone unlucky enough to choose your route to delay you. People with mattresses strapped to their cars, "Baby on Board" stickers--nothing slows you down. Because to you, Mr. Man, your car is the one place where you may beat back the forces that bear down on you. It is your limp answer to all the impotences of your own life. You sink into your leather bucket seats like a god-king usurping the throne, pumping the gas like the horsepower gushing out had anything at all to do with you.
Mr. Man, I will not judge you. Indeed you may remember, were you paying any attention at all, that I did not shout curse words at you, or raise my middle fingers in some kind of epic farewell salute. Because, really, if you kill me--what do I care? I will be dead, and that will be that. I only ask that you consider the fact that I, the bicyclist that it takes all of fifteen seconds to pass, am somebody's kid. I am somebody's sister, and I am somebody's friend. Killing me will make a terrible mess and definitely require weeks, if not months of duress for people who had no hand in my street-faring activities. Someone will have to come spray me off the street when you cream me going 70 in a 45; did you ever think of that?! How annoying for them. And...gross.
I suppose I am asking for understanding. Whether you are capable of such a thing, Mr. Man, well--that is for you to know, and me to wistfully wonder forever. Maybe the next time you saddle your valiant beast, the whole four thousand pounds of plastic and fiberglass, you will take a deep breath, put on some classical music, and let someone merge in front of you on the highway.
Also, maybe I am a cyborg fueled by rubbing alcohol and butane. But what can you do.
With much love and concern for your human spirit,
The Lizard
Hello. We met only briefly, but you might remember me--I was the person on the bike that you buzzed with your side-view mirror! Again, I know it was short-lived, but I really felt the connection--didn't you?
At the risk of sounding cynical, Mr. Man, I'll begin by saying that I know you. Or, at least, that I know your kind. You're kind of old, but not that old; your hair has begun to gray and you typically have a little bit of a belly paunch. You think an awful lot of yourself; dropping $80,000 on a car isn't much of an indicator for self-loathing. You probably work someplace that picks at the human parts of your soul like a scab. You, like so many of your generation, have been taught to dump everything into something that means nothing. But they pay you well enough--and this, in turn, has left you empty.
In my experience, limited though it may be, people like you need to drive like you do, taking to the streets with your racing stripes, engine screaming; you dare anyone unlucky enough to choose your route to delay you. People with mattresses strapped to their cars, "Baby on Board" stickers--nothing slows you down. Because to you, Mr. Man, your car is the one place where you may beat back the forces that bear down on you. It is your limp answer to all the impotences of your own life. You sink into your leather bucket seats like a god-king usurping the throne, pumping the gas like the horsepower gushing out had anything at all to do with you.
Mr. Man, I will not judge you. Indeed you may remember, were you paying any attention at all, that I did not shout curse words at you, or raise my middle fingers in some kind of epic farewell salute. Because, really, if you kill me--what do I care? I will be dead, and that will be that. I only ask that you consider the fact that I, the bicyclist that it takes all of fifteen seconds to pass, am somebody's kid. I am somebody's sister, and I am somebody's friend. Killing me will make a terrible mess and definitely require weeks, if not months of duress for people who had no hand in my street-faring activities. Someone will have to come spray me off the street when you cream me going 70 in a 45; did you ever think of that?! How annoying for them. And...gross.
I suppose I am asking for understanding. Whether you are capable of such a thing, Mr. Man, well--that is for you to know, and me to wistfully wonder forever. Maybe the next time you saddle your valiant beast, the whole four thousand pounds of plastic and fiberglass, you will take a deep breath, put on some classical music, and let someone merge in front of you on the highway.
Also, maybe I am a cyborg fueled by rubbing alcohol and butane. But what can you do.
With much love and concern for your human spirit,
The Lizard
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
UPDATING?? ME?! No...surely not.
WOW. My dear, faithful readership, wherever you are--I appreciate you. Really. My life is divided into parts...kind of like how your brain is divided into hemispheres and lobes. I pretty faithfully neglect 89% of my lobes. Bathrobes?
Anyway I think we have all figured out that I am probably never going to really tell you what happened those last few days/weeks/month? of Bike the US for MS. And perhaps that is for the best. After all, if I revealed all of the Lizard mystery to you guys...what's to make you come back here?! Isn't there a saying... something like, "nobody wants a peach with a bite missing." Yeah! That's real.
Wait...that is from memoirs of a geisha. Um--let's move on, I guess.
So Here is a quick life update. For me, probably, as much as any of you who read this.
Graduate from college: check. Experience existential life crisis: check. Funnel all possible energies into one activity that may or may not lead to a sustainable lifestyle: check. Become an adult: LOLZ NO.
I have also recently (somewhat sadly) switched teams. (...ok that sounded like a hilarious euphemism, but it was not meant to. let's all be mature about this.)
Yep! I am now a member of the illustrious Rosebandits racing team...but I will never forget the team that took me when I could barely keep from running into the barricades at races and earnestly wondered whether or not underpants were to be worn with one's chamois. I will love team kenda forever with all of my lizard heart, and I strongly encourage everyone else to do the same.
It is sort of a funny story, the way I got in contact with the Rosebandits...it was a dark and stormy night.
HA, no, it was actually the middle of the day. And it was sunny out--blisteringly so! It was Florida State Road Race Champs...my motivation was a bit lacking. To be fair, I had been "in season" since the beginning of May, and at that point, we were about to flip the calendar on October. I debated racing espoirs on the Saturday but couldn't justify spending the money on a hotel just to be thoroughly crushed the day before the race I was actually gunning for. Also, one isn't really competing for money at State Champs...more like bragging rights, and if you come out on top, a sweet jersey mimicking the design of the Floridian state flag. My bank account was already sobbing from the thorough bleeding I'd put it through the last few months: plane tickets, speeding tickets (dang old texas), lady gaga tickets!
Naw, though, I didn't go see lady gaga. But...i did want to keep that parallel structure going. (I have a degree in english...)
I decided, in my wisdom, that the best, most viable option was to leave from my sister Emily's place in Tampa in the middle of the night. Literally, the middle of the night. I think it was like....2:30 AM. Because sleep is for the weak and soulless.
"Siri," I said, "how do I get to Clermont?"
"Sorry," Siri told me, "but I don't understand 'how do I get a cream soda'? Would you like me to search the web for 'how do I get a cream soda'?"
"GOD, SIRI, HOW YOU FAIL ME." I stuffed my phone into a cupholder and resigned myself to blind, twilight sign-following.
In retrospect, the drive was thoroughly enjoyable. I had nearly a thousand milligrams of sugar-free amp marching through my bloodstream, wreaking all manner of havoc on my adrenal glands and vital organs. I WAS ALIVE. I WAS ALIVE AND IT WAS 3 AM AND WOOOOOOOOOOO.
This euphoric hyperbole was not to last, though. No thanks to Siri, I rolled up on the race course just after 4:00 AM. I was in quite a different mood, indeed. My giddy caffeine giggles had been replaced by the soft, woeful sounds of bereavement and suffering. "Why Liz," I asked myself, "why would you do this....WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS."
But I had no answer for myself, and I rarely ever do.
I found the race course without difficulty; this was my second year attending and I was pretty familiar with the course. Even so, I drove it in a sleep-deprived haze, muttering to myself about potholes and corners and degrees of incline of hills.
My strategy was simple: do nothing, until I had to do something. I have proven to myself repeatedly that hills are probably not my forte. I mean, we were still in florida, so maybe it's more appropriate to just call them humps. But...apples and oranges. You know. words.
By now it was almost five. I was delirious, and in terrible need of snacks. I went to a gas station about three miles down the road, and purchased three sugar free red bulls, an obscenely large tub of water, some almonds, and a clif bar. The clif bar was because I am health conscious. I then returned to the race course to locate a place to nap.
In my mind, the idea of just stopping somewhere and sleeping in a minivan seemed at least moderately normal. I mean, why not? Minivans are huge! It is like a traveling hotel room, sans minibar! But in practice, it is less perfect than it seems. I mean, it is actually pretty close to perfect; My only real concern was, like...axe murderers. I locked all of the doors and hid under a blanket. Fears assuaged.
Sleep eluded me for several minutes--probably due to the clinical levels of caffeine i had consumed. But, it's anyone's guess! I listened to a rooster crowing idly nearby and soon drifted off.
I jumped awake again at about 8:00 AM, feeling as though someone had stolen all of my blood and replaced it with a mixture of sand and tissue paper. It was the feeling of utter death. Imagine being slapped repeatedly with a plank of wood and then doused in seltzer water. It's like that.
At this point, I seriously doubted my ability to produce very many watts, and wondered whether it was worth the entry fee to race. But I am the Lizard, and I have some sense of dignity to uphold, so wimping out isn't really a viable option.
I rose from my minvan cave and slapped on some bibs. I checked the time: thirty minutes out. "IS THIS REAL LIFE," I cried. It was.
I withdrew the clif bar from my snack cache and ate it. I then dumped all the red bull into my bottles. How did I convince myself red bull was a good mid-race hydrator--clinical insanity? All of my inhibitions and common sense-making had turned off somewhere around 4:30.
I signed up and paid the very lovely registration people (who I was becoming rather familiar with), and rolled over to the start/finish. I asked an official for the time: ten minutes out. Oh dear god. Why.
The field was a healthy thirty-or-so ladies, a mixture of all categories. I sometimes prefer it that way, but I do believe it can be discouraging to newer riders when they are forced to "race" people three categories higher than them. But...it also helps identify sandbaggers. There are pros and cons.
ANYWAY. The race began, as all races do, and I felt shockingly normal. I deemed it some sort of miracle and continued pedaling.
I attacked somewhere in the first or second lap (i can't really remember which), just to see what people would do in response, and I got a bit of a gap going. i was quickly joined by Rosebandits' Laura Parsons, who went by me going about 32 mph up a little dip just before the first turn. Moderately stunned, I clambered onto her wheel and made a mental note that this was probably her race to lose.
I can't remember whether that was the move that stuck or if we were sucked back in again--but the important thing is, it eventually came down to a breakaway of four: LP, myself, another lady whose name i forget (i am terrible), and one of the cat 3-4 ladies who had basically already won her race.
It came down to the sprint, and laura crushed everyone decisively. I just barely beat the woman who came in third place. It was like...a thumbnail between 2nd and 3rd. SWEET LORD.
ANYWAY. The moral of this story is, after the race, I told Laura, "hey that was sweet you totes crushed me" or something like that, and she was like, "oh yeah you should check out the rosebandits!" and i was like "yeah dawg!" except that i never said that. but you get the idea.
And so, one thorough rambly block of words later, you have the point of the story. I don't know, I felt like you guys deserved some words out of me.
ANYWAY (part deux), I have resolved to write in here at least twice a week. I mean, I'm going to be riding 6 days a week. So, by the laws of nature, at least 2 out of those 6 days will have to include some sort of hilarious crises, right? It has to happen! I don't think i'll lock myself into two specific days, but that might change along the lines if i become lazy.
I am beyond excited to keep going with training, do training camps, meet new people, commence the crushery, etc etc etc. I hope you'll all read this for my lizard thoughts, ridiculous opinions, race reports, pictures, and maybe a video every now and again.
UNTIL NEXT TIME.
Your faithful Lizard
Anyway I think we have all figured out that I am probably never going to really tell you what happened those last few days/weeks/month? of Bike the US for MS. And perhaps that is for the best. After all, if I revealed all of the Lizard mystery to you guys...what's to make you come back here?! Isn't there a saying... something like, "nobody wants a peach with a bite missing." Yeah! That's real.
Wait...that is from memoirs of a geisha. Um--let's move on, I guess.
So Here is a quick life update. For me, probably, as much as any of you who read this.
Graduate from college: check. Experience existential life crisis: check. Funnel all possible energies into one activity that may or may not lead to a sustainable lifestyle: check. Become an adult: LOLZ NO.
I have also recently (somewhat sadly) switched teams. (...ok that sounded like a hilarious euphemism, but it was not meant to. let's all be mature about this.)
Yep! I am now a member of the illustrious Rosebandits racing team...but I will never forget the team that took me when I could barely keep from running into the barricades at races and earnestly wondered whether or not underpants were to be worn with one's chamois. I will love team kenda forever with all of my lizard heart, and I strongly encourage everyone else to do the same.
It is sort of a funny story, the way I got in contact with the Rosebandits...it was a dark and stormy night.
HA, no, it was actually the middle of the day. And it was sunny out--blisteringly so! It was Florida State Road Race Champs...my motivation was a bit lacking. To be fair, I had been "in season" since the beginning of May, and at that point, we were about to flip the calendar on October. I debated racing espoirs on the Saturday but couldn't justify spending the money on a hotel just to be thoroughly crushed the day before the race I was actually gunning for. Also, one isn't really competing for money at State Champs...more like bragging rights, and if you come out on top, a sweet jersey mimicking the design of the Floridian state flag. My bank account was already sobbing from the thorough bleeding I'd put it through the last few months: plane tickets, speeding tickets (dang old texas), lady gaga tickets!
Naw, though, I didn't go see lady gaga. But...i did want to keep that parallel structure going. (I have a degree in english...)
I decided, in my wisdom, that the best, most viable option was to leave from my sister Emily's place in Tampa in the middle of the night. Literally, the middle of the night. I think it was like....2:30 AM. Because sleep is for the weak and soulless.
"Siri," I said, "how do I get to Clermont?"
"Sorry," Siri told me, "but I don't understand 'how do I get a cream soda'? Would you like me to search the web for 'how do I get a cream soda'?"
"GOD, SIRI, HOW YOU FAIL ME." I stuffed my phone into a cupholder and resigned myself to blind, twilight sign-following.
In retrospect, the drive was thoroughly enjoyable. I had nearly a thousand milligrams of sugar-free amp marching through my bloodstream, wreaking all manner of havoc on my adrenal glands and vital organs. I WAS ALIVE. I WAS ALIVE AND IT WAS 3 AM AND WOOOOOOOOOOO.
This euphoric hyperbole was not to last, though. No thanks to Siri, I rolled up on the race course just after 4:00 AM. I was in quite a different mood, indeed. My giddy caffeine giggles had been replaced by the soft, woeful sounds of bereavement and suffering. "Why Liz," I asked myself, "why would you do this....WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS."
But I had no answer for myself, and I rarely ever do.
I found the race course without difficulty; this was my second year attending and I was pretty familiar with the course. Even so, I drove it in a sleep-deprived haze, muttering to myself about potholes and corners and degrees of incline of hills.
My strategy was simple: do nothing, until I had to do something. I have proven to myself repeatedly that hills are probably not my forte. I mean, we were still in florida, so maybe it's more appropriate to just call them humps. But...apples and oranges. You know. words.
By now it was almost five. I was delirious, and in terrible need of snacks. I went to a gas station about three miles down the road, and purchased three sugar free red bulls, an obscenely large tub of water, some almonds, and a clif bar. The clif bar was because I am health conscious. I then returned to the race course to locate a place to nap.
In my mind, the idea of just stopping somewhere and sleeping in a minivan seemed at least moderately normal. I mean, why not? Minivans are huge! It is like a traveling hotel room, sans minibar! But in practice, it is less perfect than it seems. I mean, it is actually pretty close to perfect; My only real concern was, like...axe murderers. I locked all of the doors and hid under a blanket. Fears assuaged.
Sleep eluded me for several minutes--probably due to the clinical levels of caffeine i had consumed. But, it's anyone's guess! I listened to a rooster crowing idly nearby and soon drifted off.
I jumped awake again at about 8:00 AM, feeling as though someone had stolen all of my blood and replaced it with a mixture of sand and tissue paper. It was the feeling of utter death. Imagine being slapped repeatedly with a plank of wood and then doused in seltzer water. It's like that.
At this point, I seriously doubted my ability to produce very many watts, and wondered whether it was worth the entry fee to race. But I am the Lizard, and I have some sense of dignity to uphold, so wimping out isn't really a viable option.
I rose from my minvan cave and slapped on some bibs. I checked the time: thirty minutes out. "IS THIS REAL LIFE," I cried. It was.
I withdrew the clif bar from my snack cache and ate it. I then dumped all the red bull into my bottles. How did I convince myself red bull was a good mid-race hydrator--clinical insanity? All of my inhibitions and common sense-making had turned off somewhere around 4:30.
I signed up and paid the very lovely registration people (who I was becoming rather familiar with), and rolled over to the start/finish. I asked an official for the time: ten minutes out. Oh dear god. Why.
The field was a healthy thirty-or-so ladies, a mixture of all categories. I sometimes prefer it that way, but I do believe it can be discouraging to newer riders when they are forced to "race" people three categories higher than them. But...it also helps identify sandbaggers. There are pros and cons.
ANYWAY. The race began, as all races do, and I felt shockingly normal. I deemed it some sort of miracle and continued pedaling.
I attacked somewhere in the first or second lap (i can't really remember which), just to see what people would do in response, and I got a bit of a gap going. i was quickly joined by Rosebandits' Laura Parsons, who went by me going about 32 mph up a little dip just before the first turn. Moderately stunned, I clambered onto her wheel and made a mental note that this was probably her race to lose.
I can't remember whether that was the move that stuck or if we were sucked back in again--but the important thing is, it eventually came down to a breakaway of four: LP, myself, another lady whose name i forget (i am terrible), and one of the cat 3-4 ladies who had basically already won her race.
It came down to the sprint, and laura crushed everyone decisively. I just barely beat the woman who came in third place. It was like...a thumbnail between 2nd and 3rd. SWEET LORD.
ANYWAY. The moral of this story is, after the race, I told Laura, "hey that was sweet you totes crushed me" or something like that, and she was like, "oh yeah you should check out the rosebandits!" and i was like "yeah dawg!" except that i never said that. but you get the idea.
And so, one thorough rambly block of words later, you have the point of the story. I don't know, I felt like you guys deserved some words out of me.
ANYWAY (part deux), I have resolved to write in here at least twice a week. I mean, I'm going to be riding 6 days a week. So, by the laws of nature, at least 2 out of those 6 days will have to include some sort of hilarious crises, right? It has to happen! I don't think i'll lock myself into two specific days, but that might change along the lines if i become lazy.
I am beyond excited to keep going with training, do training camps, meet new people, commence the crushery, etc etc etc. I hope you'll all read this for my lizard thoughts, ridiculous opinions, race reports, pictures, and maybe a video every now and again.
UNTIL NEXT TIME.
Your faithful Lizard
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)