Training, i.e. The History of a Divorce

In retrospect I should have realized this was going to be a problem. 

Steve and I have our little ways. As do most couples that have been together for some time, To deviate is to court disaster.

And that, my friends, would be called hindsight. 

Ouch.

If someone was going to label us as the separate parts, I’d probably be called The Drive. You know, the one that pushes to do new things, to make moves, shake things up.

Steve (bless his heart. 😜) would probably be something more along the lines of The Brakes. The one who is slow to make changes, keeps things steady, stable. 

For some unfathomable reason the inverse is true when it comes to training. 

This became very apparent when we started training for our 10K.

Once we both got past the I-am-going-to-die period and were running 30 minutes straight I started to notice little…differences. 

I run steady. Find a stride. Pace. Then, if I have energy left at the end, I ramp up the last third or quarter of the run. 

Steve runs flat out. 

F.L.A.T. O.U.T.

Just call him the streak. Two thirds of the distance in he’s gasping for air and has to slow down.

Both methods work. Over the course of our training we both ramped up speed and distance, but our styles aren’t exactly compatible.

Still, shouldn’t have been a problem.

Except I left Steve in charge of our cycling training. 

One of those offbeat little quirks of fate due to my being particularly busy. I say offbeat as I never leave anyone else in charge of anything. 

I’m controlling. Sue me. 😝

Oh, boy.

Have I mentioned anywhere in these pages that Steve is 7 inches taller and 60 pounds heavier than my cute little self? If not, consider yourself informed.

He’s also much more athletic, and logged mucho bike time in his youth.

I suspect some of you perceptive types may see where this is leading. 

-First time out wasn’t too bad. I came back exhausted, but, hey, first time out.

-Second time out was not an improvement. 

-By the fifth time out I hated cycling.

-By the tenth I hated Steve. 

Rides became a labor of endurance. I was committed. I had donations! 

I’D BOUGHT A BIKE

We developed a ritual. At the end of each ride I threatened to refund all donations and never saddle up again. Steve would nod, make supportive noises, agree. 

(He would have agreed to anything after a couple of weeks. 😂)

But it was a lie, and we both knew it. No way was I going to let cycling win.

-I endured. 

-I dreaded every upcoming ride. 

-I waxed lyrical on the agony of each individual outing.

-I got…well, let’s go with grouchy.

THE BONK HAPPENED

(To be recounted shortly!)

It marked a turning point. I noticed a couple of behavioral changes.

I began to wander around and talk to myself. More, I mean. I already talk to myself. Kinda a lot.

I began to…plot. 

I mean, this was, clearly, all Steve’s fault.

Divorce started to look attractive. 

1. I could live alone. 
2. I could cease having conversations where the other party wasn’t listening.
3. I could live in a house where people wiped out the microwave after each use.
4. I could ban all bikes from my vicinity.
5. I COULD HAVE SOLE CONTROL OF THE THERMOSTAT

*cackles evilly* 

Oh, yeeeeeees. Once the deed was done. (The deed being the MS150.)

(It’s just possible there may have been other things I was plotting. Things which I will not be committing to paper. Or ever tell a living soul. 😳)

The knowledge that escape lay on the not too distant horizon kept me moving. 

Barely.

Remember those different training styles? 

About three months in we realized pace was the problem. I was spent by the mid-point. Facing a two hour return ride exhausted was demoralizing.

We made adjustments.

They helped.

There’s a moral here, people. 

DO NOT DRIVE YOUR WIVES PAST THEIR THRESHOLD OF ENDURANCE

I’m still not entirely convinced he wasn’t secretly trying to kill me.… 

Divorce has been deferred. 

For now.

But I am watching him….




Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

I…Beg Your Pardon?

I am a practical sort of person. One who realizes life occasionally tosses out curve balls.  In other words, having now reached the giddy heights of middle age, I am not easy to surprise.

• Mankind’s inhumanity to man? I am inured.
• The destruction of civilization as we know it? Meh.
• The current fashion trend of pairing bike shorts with blazers? 😂

That said, there were a couple of things I was not entirely prepared for when we started cycling. 

One of those was the importance of an anatomical area not thought of since childbirth. The ischial tuberosity. Otherwise known as -

Sit bones.

My reintroduction to these small but integral little bony protrusions came about after a complaint on my part. 

(Okay, okay, so it might have been a round of complaints.)

My grievance centered on the grave discomfort of my, errr…nether regions, after a ride.

Steve, ever the trusty researcher, hopped on the computer to track down the source of my ire. Turns out those of the female persuasion tend to a slightly wider measurements between sit bones than men. A saddle commiserate with the distance between one’s sit bones is imperative to comfort.

(My saddle was too narrow. 😜)

Problem solved. Huzzah!

This led - as so many things do - to a conversation.

Steve: You need a new saddle.

Me: Okey dokey.

Steve: We need to get you measured.

Me: I…what?

Steve:  We need to get you measured.

*silence*

Me: What, exactly, are you proposing I have measured?

Steve: The distance between your sit bones.

Me: *raises eyebrow*

Me: And how, exactly, is that supposed to happen? 

Steve: They can do it at a bike store.

*more silence while I mentally picture various scenarios involving strangers and a tape measure*

Me: Ummm…Nope. 😳

I felt pretty good about my decision. I mean, the area in question would adjust with a little time.  Like muscles do after a workout. 

Right? 

My complacency lasted a few more outing. At with point I was willing to PAY to have some stranger measure my sit bones.

Gah!

I had to have them measured twice. 

Do not even ask….

* * *

MAMIL

Or.

Middle-Age Men in Lycra

This gets a bad rap. Undeserved, in my humble opinion.

Lycra is not a bad thing. If the body wearing it is nicely maintained, it can be, most definitely, not a bad thing. Middle-aged or not. 

However…. 

Lycra harbors one little known but quite serious hazard. At least little known to non-cyclists. 

This would involve the cycling bib.

For those not in the know, these babies are worn in lieu of cycling shorts. They have straps over the shoulders, rather like a pair of suspenders. This has the benefit of doing away with a waist band. Much more comfortable.

The danger here is that the lycra quality in bibs varies. Inexpensive bibs stretch thin under…duress. 

Sometimes very thin. 

Transparent, even. 

So. Is everyone here aware that cycling is done…commando?

Yes. You read that correctly. 

Com-man-do.

If you cycle, there is a distinct possibility that at some point in time you will find yourself riding behind a fellow enthusiast, who, for some incomprehensible reason has chosen to purchase cheap bibs. 

1. Someone not slim.
2. Someone hairy.
3. Someone whose posterior you have no desire in this or any other lifetime to peruse all up close and personal like.

Are you feeling me here?

ARE YOU?!?!

For the love of all that is holy.

DO NOT BUY CHEAP BIBS

The eyes on seven continents thank you.




Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

UPDATE!!!

So.

It has been a crazy two days, scrambling to try and get ready for the ride. So the following:

Wall Versus Bonk
Wind: Cycling's Ninth Circle of Hell
I…Beg Your Pardon?
Training, i.e. The History of a Divorce

Will all be posted next week, post-race.

Survival presumptive. 

There will also be a post or two discussing the race itself aaaaand overnight camping.  I hear there are…cots.

Hmmmm.

AND WE RIDE!!!

😜

Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

Steep Hills and Concrete Channels: A Love Affair

Steve and I argue occasionally, as married couples do. These things are usually settled fairly easily by one of us ceding to the other, area of expertise dependent.

Usually that’s what happens. (Not always 😂). 

Steve happens to be the math guru.

When angles, distances, or complicated equations of the higher math variety are required, he is the go-to guy.

Now, considering our area of country, you’d assume our rides generally cover terrain that is well, flat. Not so! At least, not where we ride. Two bayous, back to back, provide us with quite a  surprising amount of elevational variation.

- I do not care for heights. 

- I do not care for speed. 

- I particularly do not care for heights and speed in conjunction.

Of the many things I have learned during this little adventure, one is that any exceptionally steep decline is guaranteed to dead end into an impossibly sharp turn. One that must be made in order to avoid ending up at the bottom of a channel.

Channels are made of concrete.

Often there is a little water.

(As if that weren’t enough, where there is water, there might be ducks! Mind, I have yet to see any, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there…lurking.)

There is one place on our ride that is, for lack of a better word, horrifying. 

Normally I would rather go downhill than up, for…well, surely obvious reasons?  In this particular instance I would rather climb that hill five times to avoid going down once.

I…so not kidding. 😟

As you perch atop that 45 degree angle and gaze upon the hard left turn required to avoid ending up plummeting to your death in a 30 foot drop, you might begin to wonder what atrocities you’ve committed during a previous lifetime that have gotten you to this particular place at this particular time.

Imagine this as endless continuous loop for your thrice weekly cycling experience.

Steve, in his willful ignorance, insists the downhill run is only 15 degrees, and the left turn, while sharp, would only entail a 15 foot drop if missed.

He is wrong. 

This brooks no argument.

Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

Ducks are a Hazard! I repeat, DUCKS ARE A HAZARD

I’ve never understood those people who are freaked out by birds. Something about their beady little eyes being all cold and reptilian, I guess.

I like birds. I mean, not in love or anything. I don’t practice bird calls or pepper the house with a bird decorated motif. 

But, yeah. Call me pro bird.

I now realize that stance was merely a circumstance of having little interaction with the bird population at large.

I don’t know where (or if) most of you ride. We spend much time on a couple of bayous. Which means water. 

There are…ducks.

At first, this posed no problem. Why should it? Aside from the occasional, “Oh, look! Ducks! How pretty,” there was really very little to say.

However, as I started logging more saddle time I started noticing. Things.

Like, the occasional duck who stood in the middle of the path and met your eyes. Defiantly. 

(There is nothing so defiant as the gaze of a duck!)

You could tell it was somehow…daring you.

Daring you to hit it? Come within snapping range? Kill yourself practicing avoidance maneuvers?

I DO NOT KNOW

Worse, there were the ducks who saw you coming and moved deliberately to block your path.

DELIBERATELY

It was…disturbing.

I don’t want you to think I’m maligning the general duck population.

These were rogue ducks

You could see it in their beady little eyes….

After several rides enduring duck bullying, a memory surfaced from my childhood. My grandmother had a duck. It used to chase my sister, cousin, and self out of our toddler wading pool.

Strangely, if memory serves, no one wanted to interfere with the duck. Excuses were made, along the lines of the duck being old and crotchety. 

Now, I see those excuses for what they were.

Duck enabling.

Or maybe, just maybe, they were just terrified.

Of the duck.

All that long-winded meandering boils done to one thing.

I get it now.

Those people that think birds are creepy minions of evil?

They were talking about ducks.  

Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

Humiliation 101

*flashing lights* 

Post change alert! 

Humiliation 101 is replacing The Three Ss: Sit Bones, Safety, Survival.

(Hey. I told you this was on the fly. 😁)

Sit bones will be covered in another post. Safety, meh. Survival? My expectations are low.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about passing. 

You’re probably wondering what I, the Queen of the Uncoordinated, could possibly have to say about the rules of passing other bikers.

Aaaaand, that would be nothing.

I’m not talking that kind of passing. 

I only wish I were….

- During our biking sortes, I have I’ve been passed by people who looked too feeble to stand alone unsupported. 

- A young lady five inches shorter and possibly seventy pounds heavier SAILED past me one day.  On a city bike. 

- Once…I was passed going uphill. By a jogger. 

Last weekend we went cycling with a local club. One of those rides where there are multiple groups. They offered a no-drop group. My choice. Naturally.

The next tier up was touted as riding in the 14 to 16 mile an hour range. In my innocence (long lost at this point), I assumed the no-drop group would ride at a more sedate pace, say…twelve miles an hour.

You know what they say about people who assume.

I started off third or fourth in line. No worries.

Slowly. They began to pass. After the number of *passers* reached seven or eight, I began to get a bit…let’s just go with, concerned.

Turns out, the no-droppers, for some ungodly reason, try to keep at 14 miles an hour.

I am a 12 mile an hour rider….

However, no fear! The no-drop team has a cyclist in the rear, to ensure, you guessed it, that no one gets dropped.

I huff along. My little legs pedaling.

One of the front-runners pulls off. Flat tire. Rear team cyclist (the one whose supposed to make sure no-one gets dropped) stops to help.

I am now officially the *turtle*.

The now officially trepidatious turtle.

I managed to pretty well keep up until the mid-point when we broke for a rest. Barely. But…it was not pretty. No. Not pretty.

Once I dragged into the convenience store parking lot I immediately tracked down the group leader.

Me: I am having trouble with the speed.

Him: Oh? Really? 

He seemed…how shall I put it? A little lacking in concern?

Him: The ride back is usually slower.

Tone and manner remained a touch insouciant for my taste. Particularly since I was I had no idea where I was or how to get back to the start point.

Did I mention I had no phone?

(Yeah, yeah. I know.)

We start back. 

Immediately, I fell behind. 

HOLY CRAP 😳

What is it Scarlet O’Hara says in that moving scene where she renounces all future ties with any sort of morality in order to ensure she is never poor again? “As God is my witness…something, something.”

Me: “As God is my witness…just get me home and I’ll never…!”

(I’ll spare you the gory details. 😝)

The next couple of miles were hell. Particularly as the rear cyclist whizzed past me the first mile in. At which point, I, in a word, PANICKED.

For about ten minutes. 

It was about then I realized they’d left someone to babysit me for the return 18 miles. A very nice gentlemen, who’d passed me going out, and the self-designated slow rider of the group.

He was…72.

:headdesk:

*Turtle - for those not in the know, this means the last cyclist in the line. I am not certain, but I suspect it's not entirely complimentary….

Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum