Just as my training is a science, my body is just a tool, a machine. I do what I must to care for my body so that it will perform at its peak. I fuel it with the best foods. I stretch and massage away tight muscles and minor aches. I do exercises every other night beside my bed to help strengthen my injured shoulder. I continue to work on strengthening my core so that my chronic back pain doesn't leave me on the side of the road in Madison. I shave my legs once a week to keep myself feeling fast and fit and to allow myself to be identified with the endurance community. I drink more water than I ever have to ensure that I wake up fully hydrated and ready to train. I take 6 vitamins and supplements each day to keep my body healthy. I ice minor aches into numbness. I wear ridiculous compression socks to keep my blood flowing in my legs, allowing a faster recovery. I throw apple cider, frozen fruit and a whole bunch of whey protein powder into my Magic Bullet after particularly hard workouts to help repair damaged muscle tissue. My body is no work of art. I'm hardly Michelangelo's David. But my body, like yours, is a miracle, and I intend to do everything in my power to keep it going at full steam.
I've been an obsessive cyclist for most of my life. I want my bikes to ride well, to look good, and to be grossly anorexic. Though not the worst of them, I am, what cyclists call, a weight weenie. I want my bikes to be as light as possible. I have hand chosen certain components and accessories because they are the lightest. The unseasoned will look upon my road bike saddle with dread. "How do you sit on that?" they wonder. "It's so small. It's so hard. Doesn't that hurt?" they wonder. "I'm used to it," I retort. "And it's so light!" I brag.
I picked a similarly cool-looking, lightweight saddle for my triathlon bike. Only, being new to triathlon bikes, it wasn't an educated choice. A rider's position perched upon a triathlon bike is somewhat different than the same rider upon a road bike. With his upper body resting upon his forearms and his butt pushed forward upon the bike, the triathlete's hips are rotated forward, thereby putting more pressure upon his, ahem, unmentionables.
As a bit of a bike snob, I figured that I knew better, but after my first 3-hour ride upon the tri bike and a very pretty saddle, I was just a little
I know. It doesn't much look like a bike saddle. That's what I thought, too. In fact, being a bit of a traditionalist, as far as cycling goes, I think I rolled my eyes the first few times I saw one of these. But the most intimate parts of me were screaming for relief and with 112 miles to cover, I was willing to consider something that looks strange and weighs more grams than I would have once thought was acceptable. At least, I thought, nobody will see my weird-looking saddle when I'm sitting on it.
Last Thursday was my first 3-hour ride, and, in fact, my first ride, altogether, upon my new saddle. Observation #1. I'm an idiot. I didn't tighten the bolt nearly enough and before long the nose began to tip down towards the road as I fought not to slide right off. A quick stop, a few turns on the hex wrench and off I go.
Observation #2 never came. 3 hours later, as I pulled up my driveway, it occurred to me that I utterly forgot about the saddle beneath me. My legs were tired and my lungs were burning, but my, ahem, unmentionables thanked me for compromising my vanity and a few grams for the sake of my virility.
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