To Live and Train in L.A. #10 ASSHOLE EDITION

Mine is fine, thanks to a combination of these products applied to my bibshort chamois before each ride – and no, I’m not putting either sun block or Visine on my ass. I’ve been eating properly of late, too, which always adds an extra little zing to the happy feeling between the chamois and the eye that can’t see. So while I may still be an asshole, you can’t deny that at least I’m taking care of myself.

On the low cycling roads of the City of Angels, however, I’m meeting up with nothing but assholes who seem like they could use something to prevent the chafing, so to speak. Let me clarify myself: I have mentioned this to a few local folks via email, that I keep running into assholes on my bike rides, people who don’t want to talk, who want to keep hammering, who suffer from the 40% I.Q. Reduction Syndrome that afflicts so many thousands of cyclists when they have a bicycle between their legs. Sometimes I chase these guys down, sometimes I let them go, sometimes I stare sadly to the east, over the mountains, and think maybe I should get the hell out of here and live in a rural area where hippie folk ride bikes because it’s fun, because it’s pleasurable, not because it’s a way to prove the size of one’s metaphorical dick or the scope of one’s manhood. One of the funniest things my buddy Professor Sherkat ever said was when we were talking about a new guy in town who trained on the Joel Friel plan – with all the zones and the mathematical charts on progress and happiness. Sherkat said, “The guy should just go and jerk off for a couple of weeks.” I’m pretty sure the guy in question didn’t and is still riding like a jackass. Oh well. So I’ve emailed my complaints to a few locals and they have all replied with basically the same thought: “Race your bike, Mag.” And my reply is this: “Do I have to?”

Yes. I do.

I’m not in great shape but am slowly getting in better shape, and in a Cat IV Masters road race or crit out here I would get shelled quicker than me and the Champ used to shell peanuts while we watched White Sox games at my place in Carbondale. But I guess I can’t worry about the results. If I try as hard as I can in race, with a number pinned on my jersey, I will be hammering in the appropriate environment for hammering.

Then again, maybe I should just put on baggy shorts and get a 29er and leave the roadie world altogether.

Probably doesn’t matter so much. My ass feels good. That’s really all I had to say today. A person can build any number of joyful days on that.

Six full months till cross season. Lordy. The wait’s killing me.

Intervals at 4:20 this afternoon. Anybody up for it?