From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XXXII

Introduction

This is the thirty-second installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I of the series is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, Volume XVI is here, Volume XVII is here, Volume XVIII is here, Volume XIX is here, Volume XX is here, Volume XXI is here, Volume XXII is here, Volume XXIII is here, Volume XXIV is here, Volume XXV is here, Volume XXVI is here, Volume XXVII is here, Volume XXVIII is here, Volume XXIX is here, Volume XXX is here, and Volume XXXI is here.

What are Bits & Bobs? They’re short essays and other missives I wrote ages ago, usually taken from letters to friends and family. I wrote these long before I had a blog and (in the case of this week’s batch) even before I had email. When writing them I tried to be all literary and highbrow, whether or not I had any faith my words would even be read. In that sense these letters were a whole lot like albertnet…

The different volumes of Bits & Bobs are not organized chronologically, thematically, spatially, or in fact at all. You can read these in numerical, alphabetical, sequential, or temporal order, or according to your religious, philosophical, ontological, or spiritual ideals. Are some volumes better than others? I have no idea … I only wrote and compiled them.

Note: albertnet makes no warranty as to the quality, utility, readability, or applicability of these Bits & Bobs. By reading, skimming, scrolling, or gazing upon this post you agree to be bound by the albertnet Privacy Policy, which exists entirely to protect you, but not from every threat. You agree to indemnify, defend, and hold harmless the author of this post from any feelings you may have of inadequacy, superiority, awe, or ennui arising from the consumption of this material. If you are a bot, kill yourself immediately. If you plan to read this post aloud, please do so in a firm, authoritative, but friendly voice, and if you sing it, feel free to dance along—but no twerking, for god’s sake.

Today’s Bits & Bobs are in chronological order, and all happen to have been written when I was a Berkeley student.

July 28, 1990

A bunch of B—’s friends came up to visit for the weekend, and we went to this San Francisco bar, the Savoy Tivoli. Everyone was ordering cocktails. I’d never had a cocktail in my life and didn’t even know their names. I felt tongue-tied and almost panicked. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to note what the person before me ordered, and parroted “gin and tonic” as my order. It felt weird to hear this phrase come out of my mouth—like a lie, almost. I mean, I didn’t even know what a gin and tonic was, so to suggest that I actually wanted one was somehow fundamentally untrue. The drink went down easily enough, but I had no idea what it had cost, and you know how broke I always am, so it was the only drink I ordered all evening. (That ended up being a good thing because the entire rest of our party got completely clocked, and it fell to me to be the designated driver.) It was pretty funny: Fat Head started hitting on this girl in our group he didn’t know, somebody’s friend, and he thought her name was Connie but he wasn’t sure, so he was kind of introducing this “H” sound into it, like “CHonnie,” so that if he had the name wrong she’d think he was saying “Honey.” (I wouldn’t have put this together at the time; he explained the strategy the next day.) Well, the girl’s name was actually Alicia and she didn’t buy his BS for a second. So anyhow, B— and I have noted how soft and wormlike guys can tend to get when they’re overly smitten by a girl, and we are perennially on our guard against that. So when one of us is talking about some fly chick we’re into, we always refer to her as “CHonnie,” as a way to downplay our interest, kind of like saying “what’s-her-name.” As a linguistic innovation, it’s right up there with “Hector.”

Speaking of trying to maintain our dignity in the face of beautiful, terrifying girls, B— and I try to balance things out by turning the love interest into a foil for our own joking around. For example, B—’s “friend” M— came to visit, and I knew she wasn’t just a friend, he totally pined for her as he’d described in great detail prior, without even remembering to refer to her as “Chonnie.” Yeah: that smitten. As I was introduced I said, “It’s so nice to meet you M—. Gosh, B— has told me so much about you.” But I made sure to get her name slightly wrong, as a little inside joke to B—. And then when B— left us alone for a few minutes, while he finished styling himself out before they left, I took M— aside and spoke to her in a hushed tone: “Sorry if B— sort of embarrasses you when you go out tonight. I keep promising I’ll take him out clothes shopping so he won’t look like such a dork, but I haven’t gotten around to it. He’s cool though, I mean seriously, except when . . . well, sometimes he acts kind of cheesy. He can’t help it. But you guys will have fun, trust me.” I delighted in wondering how M— would recount this little pre-apology to B— later. Ideally, they’d share a laugh over my “clothes shopping” comment, since B— dresses better than anyone I know, and I shop at Ross Dress for Less. [Note: you can read here how, not long after, B— turned the tables on me. –Ed.]

June 20, 1991

Seems I’m finally getting some acne, after having been mostly spared as a teenager. (Who knows, maybe I’m finally hitting puberty.) But I don’t get a lot of zits all over my face, like a lot of other people. I get one, and only one, except that it only seems like just one, but really it’s like five—four of which are beneath the skin, right underneath the visible one, burrowing deep into my face. Only one makes it to the surface at a time. So it gets good and ripe, whitehead and all, and I go to pop it and the seed comes right out, springing clear of the skin of my face in a valiant attempt to reach the bathroom mirror, sometimes even making a distinct “poip” noise, but to my horror there’s still something there. And that next one lures me into a false sense that it’s ripe, and I invariably try to finish it off, and the whole thing gets red and bloated and really sore. This has happened twice now, once on my forehead where my hair kind of covered it up, and again right near my mouth. I cannot convey to you how pissed off this gets me. Near my mouth, I resisted the impulse to pop the zit, but then when it finally went away, the zit beneath it dropped right down the little pimple-tunnel into exactly the same place as the first. So much self restraint is required here that I’m not sure I can take it. At least it’s not as bad as that forehead one: that one had so much zit-puss behind it I could feel a raised section on my forehead the diameter of a quarter. And you know what the worst of it is? None of my zits has ever been as bad as the ones I see every day, on all kinds of people. On the way to a haircut in the San Francisco Castro district the other day, I was taking Muni, which is this really scummy subway, and I saw this old guy with about seven or eight huge warts on his nose. It was so hideous I could only look for about a second at a time. I got to thinking, what would happen to me if my nose began to grow warts like those? First, this would destroy my social life, as nobody would be willing to subject himself to the heinous sight of me. I would honorably remove myself from people’s sight and become a hermit. I’d only venture out via shitty big-city subways where everybody’s too busy rushing around everywhere to notice me, except for maybe some college kid who thinks he can boost his own self-image (tarnished by a towering whitehead zit, perhaps) by noting the physical deformities of people like me.

September 10, 1991 - Berkeley

I’ve finally mostly got my health back after that heinous, endless strep throat business. There’s just one symptom remaining: I can’t open my jaws more than like a centimeter, because of the residual swelling. So I’m eating a bit slower lately. A friend had me over for lunch at her sorority house and all we had to choose from was roast beef sandwich or salad (which, as you know, is ideal for rabbits and chicks, but not guys like us). So I’m there dipping this roast beef sandwich in the “au jus” and kind of smashing it into my lips and sucking it through the narrow gap between my upper and lower teeth. My parents would be shocked at such table manners. For a moment I worried that the sorority sisters were grossed out, but then quickly grasped that nobody was paying any attention to me. I mean, why would they? I need to get over myself.

I had some totally heinous nightmares when I was sick, dude. The last one I had, maybe a week ago, was that I was with my family at this weird place, sort of a cross between a hotel and a museum, and there was this exhibit on the top floor where you would walk through and see the corpses of all these people who went crazy (some sort of mass hysteria) and killed themselves with scalpels. So I went through and all these people had sliced themselves to ribbons and a few of them weren’t even dead yet. Yow!

Today I was riding my bike through campus (a highly illegal activity, for some reason) when I saw The Most Intensely Beautiful Woman in the World. Have I told you about her? She was in one of my English classes last semester. She makes the second most beautiful girl in the world (her friend, actually, who sat with her) look plain. I’m serious, if you saw her you would instantly reorganize your hierarchy of most attractive females in the world, with her at the top. I’ve never even seen a picture of a model who’s as attractive. At the final exam last semester I arrived a bit early, to make sure I had all the time I needed, and she came and sat right next to me. It was a huge lecture hall, still mostly empty, so there was no need for this; I’m certain she was just messing with me because she’s probably caught me sneaking looks at her. So the lecture hall filled up and then the exam started and for like twenty minutes I couldn’t even think. She’s that fly. I should have waited after the exam and gone up to her and said something really suave like, “Insofar as you totally distracted me just now, and my grade in this class will probably suffer, can you at least tell me your name?” Anyhow, when I saw her again today I almost passed out. I’m lucky I didn’t crash my bike. Damn.

October 1, 1991

Some of my friends are older and have already graduated, and since I’m in my senior year, I’m starting to worry (just a little) about joining the workforce and what that will be like. Here is my composite of what my friends’ stories suggest: the “real job” is distinct from a “summer job” mainly by the level of decorum. Even if you mainly sit in an office talking on the phone all day, you have to wear a necktie. Why the tie? Beats me. Maybe it’s like a collar and leash, to remind you of your submission to your employer. And then you have to drive incredible distances on the highway to get to work, which sucks because of traffic, and then when the traffic finally clears up and you want to make up time so you’re not late to work, you see a highway patrol car and have to slow down again, cussing and moaning about how you’re going to be late now and why doesn’t that cop get the hell out of here and let you be, and then you get to work and whenever the bossman comes around you have to speed up your work, and why doesn’t that jerk get the hell out of here and let you be, and then you drive home and bitch about the traffic, and about the cop, and then you drink a beer and figure out a way to fill in the time before you go to bed, wake up the next morning, and do the whole thing over again. On the weekends, exhausted, you need to get away so you do a trip somewhere, and drive along the freeway and cuss and moan when you see a cop cruiser, and then hang out at a beach and go to a few bars and visit old friends from college and then have to part ways and drive back across the highway and get ready to begin another five-day grind. Man, I can’t wait.

November 5, 1991 - Berkeley

I’m taking this Native American literature course and it’s pretty rad. First we read lots of trickster tales, which bear an interesting resemblance to the African American Brer Rabbit tales. The Native American trickster is usually a rabbit or at least rabbit-ish. The really weird part is how often these stories mention his penis—either its being extraordinarily long, or detachable, or getting badly injured. This is one of the benefits of being an English major: I can regale my roommates with what I’m learning, and they’re actually interested. It doesn’t wash the other way. E— can’t really talk about Political Science because everyone (including he himself) knows that’s pretty boring. M— is getting a PhD in Mechanical Engineering which I suppose I’d find interesting except how could he possibly dumb it down enough for me? The other guy, J—, is majoring in Forestry, and maybe that could be interesting if described by a bright guy, but J— is just a dumbass. When challenged about having the easiest major there is, he replied, “Dude, there’s a lotta trees!” (I didn’t make that up, he really said that.) In contrast, when I recount a tale of the Trickster sending his incredibly long penis across a river to achieve sexual congress with the daughter of another tribe’s chief, I have my roommates’ full attention.

I’m reading this hella dope book called Fools Crow now. I didn’t grasp the point of the title at first because I thought it was “fool’s crow,” like some fool had a pet crow or something, like maybe he’d have been a falconer if he wasn’t such a fool. But it’s actually a verb phrase, “fools Crow,” as in he fooled the Crow tribe. Turns out the Native Americans in the protagonist’s tribe (and probably others) had this convention of giving you a really lame name when you’re young—the protagonist’s was “White Man’s Dog,” i.e., very derogatory—and then if you do something impressive, like using cunning to kill the Crow chief, you get a cool new name honoring your achievement, hence “Fools Crow.” I have been trying to turn this into a new tradition for my roommates and me, giving each other lame names based on our lack of achievement, e.g., Wets the Bed or Chases Bimbos. This didn’t take hold, but then I happened to mention that White Man’s Dog called his wife “nothing-woman.” That immediately stuck, and has become something we invariably call one another (e.g., “Stop leaving your wet towel on the floor, nothing-woman!”) and is also a way to refer to one another’s girlfriends (e.g., “So are we riding this weekend or is your nothing-woman dragging you off somewhere?”).

—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—
Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Biased Blow-By-Blow - Vuelta a España Stage 9

Introduction

Remember that annoying character, Cousin Oliver, who showed up in a few episodes of “The Brady Bunch?” Well, the Vuelta a España is kind of the Cousin Oliver of the Grand Tours. It’s late in the season, the weather isn’t typically as dramatic as that of the Giro d’Italia, and most of all it simply isn’t the Tour de France. So it gets no respect. But honestly, it’s usually a lot better show than the Tour, especially when a rider whose Tour hopes got scuppered can have one final shot at redeeming his season. I was hoping that’d be the case for Jonas Vingegaard (Team Visma - Lease a Bike) this year, after he crashed out of the Tour, but he isn’t here. Instead, Tadej Pogacar decided to show up and make the race boring as fuck. So I almost wasn’t even going to follow this Vuelta. But here I am … can you guess why? Read on!

Vuelta a España Stage 9 – La Vila Joiosa to Alto de Aitana

As I join the action, the riders have 79 kilometers (49 miles) left to race and a breakaway has almost five minutes on the red jersey group. The course profile you see above really threw me because it’s in miles, for crying out loud. Notwithstanding the superiority of the Imperial system of measure, this scale is annoying because looking at the footage, which gives the remaining distance in kilometers, it’s hard to figure out where the riders are. Before my coffee kicked in, and I realized the scale was miles, I was totally confused, to the point of mental collapse, and thought about going back to bed. But of course I didn’t because—and this is the most important thing to know about this year’s Vuelta—Tadej Pogacar (UAE Team Emirates XRG) is out of the race.

It’s sad, and strange, but Pogacar, who led the GC battle from day one after winning the very short opening time trial, crashed on a flat, straight road yesterday, apparently after he or someone near him ran over an object in the road. Pogacar went right over the bars and suffered a broken collarbone, a broken vertebra, and a concussion. Of course that is a terrible shame. At the same time, life goes on: insofar as we haven’t resolved to wear black for a year, not go out in public, and not watch any more of the Vuelta, it must be said the race just got way more exciting. Instead of a foregone conclusion, the race is blown wide open.

The riders are crossing the valley floor before starting the third-to-last climb, the Category 2 Puerto de Tudons. Movistar Team leads the peloton, working to bring back this breakaway because their leader, Enric Mas, also leads the Vuelta.

Is Mas Grand Tour winner material? I’m a bit skeptical, as he’s not usually a rider who takes a lot of initiative … he just follows wheels, rides consistently, and hopes for the best. That said, a couple stages ago Pogacar was soloing and Mas actually bridged up to him. It gave Pogacar a bit of a shock, because Mas seemed to come out of nowhere and blew right by him at the very summit of the final climb. Pogi seemed to have forgotten that he doesn’t always get to solo just because he tried. I was reminded of Mike Tyson’s bewildered reaction when Evander Holyfield became the first opponent to actually fight back, instead of immediately folding up. My analogy only goes so far, of course, because Pogacar didn’t bite Mas’s ear, and probably wasn’t even tempted. Pogacar wasn’t overmuch threatened by Mas’s insubordination, as the “attack so they’ll give up” tactic had worked just fine in Stage 4, the first real mountain stage of the race, when the Slovenian soloed from 50 kilometers out and took almost three minutes, easily enough to secure the overall GC barring some catastrophe (which as you now know did happen).

It’s a really big breakaway. Their lead is down to 4:32 … should I give you all the names? What a hassle. I’ll give you a few. We’ve got Gianni Vermeersch (Red Bull - Bora - Hansgrohe), Kevin Vermaerke (UAE Team Emirates XRG), Stefan Kung (Tudor Pro Cycling Team), Alexey Lutsenko (NSN Cycling Team), Santiago Buitrago (Bahrain Victorious), and Pavel Sivakov (UAE Team Emirates XRG). It’s at least twenty riders total and in the time it took to type that, the lead came down nine seconds. Who knows, maybe a subset of this group will stay away … hopefully not the guys I didn’t name. Anyhow, they’ve got 2.8 kilometers left on this climb.

I took a gamble and slept in a bit late today, figuring that without Pogacar, the race would be slower. This has worked out well … they are way behind schedule to finish at the earliest predicted time.

It’s hotter than balls out there according to Christian Vande Velde, one of the Peacock announcers. Yes, of course I’m paraphrasing. Wouldn’t it be great if these guys talked like that, though? Apparently there was a pretty funny exchange during an early stage, when a freak hailstorm ended the stage and drove all the riders to seek shelter in a roadside hotel. As a friend recounted to me, Bob Roll said something like, “I’m not sure the stage should have ended, I think I’ve raced in worse conditions,” and Vande Velde replied, “You’re an idiot.” Don’t get me wrong, I like Bob okay, but honestly, that rebuke was long overdue.

So how hot is “hotter than balls”? It’s 34 degrees Kelvin. I know that’s not very helpful, especially when it’s obviously not Kelvin, that would be almost 400 below zero. Just making sure you’re awake. It’s 34 Celsius, which is 93 degrees Fahrenheit. Why do all these benighted countries persist with this inferior metric system?

With 1.7 kilometers left in the climb, the gap is down to 4:02. It’s not just Movistar working to close the gap, as several teams now have a good shot at helping their leader win this Vuelta. The favorite now would have to be Primoz Roglic (Red Bull - Bora - Hansgrohe), who has won this race four times, including two years ago. He’s in second overall and trails Mas by just one minute. Felix Gall (Decathlon CMA CGM Team) sits third, a mere 11 seconds behind Roglic, and in fourth is Sepp Kuss (Team Visma - Lease a Bike), 1:04 off the virtual podium and 2:15 behind Mas. Rounding out the top five is the current Best Young Rider of this Vuelta, the one and only Oscar Onley (Netcompany Ineos Cycling Team), a mere second behind Kuss.

Interestingly, with 54 kilometers to go, the gap is increasing again as riders tackle the penultimate descent. It’s back to almost five minutes. But we’re going to see three or four teams shredding the last climb, it’s gonna be awesome. So why does my cat look so bored? She’s barely paying attention!

Who are the other favorites for this Vuelta now? On paper, I’d expect the big battle to come down to Roglic vs. Kuss, since they’ve both proven they can win this. (In case you’ve been hiding under a rock for the last several years, Kuss has won the Vuelta before, in 2023, despite severe opposition from his own teammates.) Granted, Mas has been second overall three times, but there’s a big difference between first and second. Gall has only managed eighth overall. And neither of them has had to deal with the extreme pressure of seizing and defending a Grand Tour lead.

Alessandro Romele (XDS - Astana) attacks, weirdly enough, and takes the descent solo. I guess if he’s got mad descending skills he might as well; if the break fractures behind him he may have fewer competitors to contend with. Wow, he’s really good and has established a non-trivial 49-second lead. And it’s not like the break isn’t trying … their lead on the peloton has ballooned up to 5:46!

I don’t know how these short climbs get labeled Category 2. It seems like this one only just started and now there’s only 3.7 kilometers left.

Marcel Camprubi (Pinarello - Q36.5 Pro Cycling Team) is chasing down Romele as they approach the summit. He quickly cuts the gap in half. He’s really thrashing the bike but hauling ass, so.

Getting back to the GC favorites, which team is the strongest? Oddly, Visma - Lease a Bike evidently decided that without their usual leader, Vingegaard, they’d just hunt stage wins, which is working out great with their crazy-fast young sprinter, Matthew Brennan, who’s won two stages. Doesn’t bode well for supporting Kuss, though. Movistar was always in this for the GC, bringing two leaders, one of whom, Cian Uijtdebroeks, flamed out in dramatic fashion, dropping out after finishing dead last on Stage 4 due to a hairline fracture on his ankle. Our hearts went out to Uijtdebroeks, as he’d raced the entire stage with this injury, until we found out he incurred it kicking a dog. Then we all despised him, until we learned that the dog was completely racist and deserved to be kicked. Only upon further reflection—can a dog be racist?—did we become truly ambivalent, especially given the karmic notion that that dog’s being kicked was likely something that unfolded through natural moral causation or cosmic law, not entirely due to Uijtdebroeks’s will. We’ve ultimately decided that the case is too murky to justify a strong opinion, and we’ve gone back and deleted all the extreme comments we’d scattered across cycling websites.

Getting back to the team analysis, Decathlon has brought a very strong team here with the specific aim of supporting Gall in the overall. So the team dynamic could blah blah blah I wish something exciting would happen in this stage.

Holy crap, the lead is out to almost six minutes. What are these teams doing? I guess they still have time, with two big climbs to go.

Sivakov has caught Camprubi. They trail Romele by 33 seconds.

In the peloton, both Decathlon and Movistar are now working.

This is interesting. Romele decided his brake lever was dirty and spent so long washing it off, the two chasers all but closed the gap.

I’ll bet their levers are filthy. The question is, will that matter in the finale? We shall see.

It’s another endless commercial break so I’ve bounced over to Claude to see if I can get an answer to a pressing question: how is Kuss’s form right now? Naw, I’m just messing with you … I know the more pressing question is, did Kuss get that tooth fixed? If you’ve been following albertnet you’ll have read about how the American seemed to have Stage 20 in the bag, but then crashed—twice!—on the final descent. He did win the Combativity award, and I was shocked at the state of his teeth as he stood grinning on the podium (a good sport, always!). Kind of hard to look at, honestly. So I really hope he got that fixed now that he’s leading his team in this Vuelta with a serious shot at victory. But Claude can’t turn anything up about the tooth. There’s been no dental report in any cycling journal.

Now, if you’re pedantic enough to care whether Kuss and Roglic are riding well lately, I guess I can speculate. Roglic was hit by a car in training in late July, after which he said it was a struggle even to put on his socks. I’d say he’s riding great, considering. As for Kuss, he raced both the Giro and the Tour so he’s got to be pretty fried. Time, and miles, will tell.

As the riders near the base of the final climb, Decathlon is still up there and Movistar masses for Mas at the front.

More ads, including one for maple-flavored waffles at Chick-Fil-A. I’ll be right back, I have to go throw up.

Okay, I’m back, and the breakaway has reached the final climb. The gap is down to 4:25 on the leading trio, who now have 1:36 on what’s left of the original breakaway. Did I say trio? Looks like Romele detonated at some point and is nowhere to be seen. Oh well ... at least his lever is clean.

As the peloton hits the climb, Decathlon keeps drilling it at the front. How long can they keep this up? It’s a long fricking climb, like 12 miles. My mouth is watering.

The gap is down to 3:48. There’s a chase group of four 1:23 behind the leading duo … or is this really just what’s left of that giant breakaway? Behind them by 11 seconds is Lutsenko. I guess the group did detonate.

Wow, the peloton is depleted too. It’s gotta be fewer than 25 guys and there’s a lot of climbing still to come. The gap has now fallen below three minutes. If a GC favorite launches an attack, that margin could tumble pretty fast. Wait, did I just say “if”? I did. We could see a boring détente here. Mas and Gall just aren’t that attack-y, and Roglic and Kuss (per my earlier analysis) may not feel up to ripping everyone’s legs off, including their own.

For the team supposedly defending their leader’s red jersey, Movistar isn’t doing much now. They haven’t been on the front in at least a dozen miles. In fact, they haven’t even been ahead of Mas. And now one of them blows!

Up ahead, Sivakov attacks and gets a good gap pretty quickly. Camprubi looks to really be suffering, sawing away at his bike, out of the saddle.

Oh yeah, thirty seconds later Camprubi is toast.

Back in the GC group, Mas sits up to fiddle with his water bottle. Look, Mas, no hands!

Mas looks okay but man, his team is getting shelled. Look at this poor bastard being dropped. I wish you could see how bad his form looks, he’s dying.

With five miles to go, the gap is down to 1:45 and Sivakov looks like he’s really hurting.

Ooh, Kuss is dangling just off the back of the GC group.

And now Gall makes his move! Mas seems to handle it pretty easily but the group completely shatters.

Oh man, the gap to the break is plummeting as the grade gets steeper. Sivakov’s shoulders are rocking. It’s only 1:06 now … I can’t see him staying off.

Gall goes again! My god, the effrontery of this man! (You didn’t think I was gonna say gall, did you…?)

Sivakov is practically underwater.

The GC group is down to only Onley, Roglic, Mas, Gall, and Richard Carapaz (EF Education - Easypost). Kuss is way off the back. These guys are passing the remains of the break like in one of those car race video games.

Carapaz attacks! He looks great!

Wow, a big gap yawns way out. Carapaz could well win this stage. And what of his GC hopes? He started today in sixth overall, 2:22 behind Mas. He has to be considered a favorite, especially now. He won the 2019 Giro, you know.

Carapaz overhauls Buitrago.

Wow, Gall has attacked again and suddenly Carapaz and Sivakov are both neutralized!

Gall just keeps drilling it. He’s relentless. Mas just waits, watches, matches, no sense of any initiative but he’s just … competent. For now.

Golly, Gall attacks again, and this time he’s kind of caught Mas napping! Still, it comes right back together. These repeated attacks have got to be costing Gall, though.

Mattias Skelmose had been dangling off the back of this lead group but suddenly catches up and rolls right on by.

And just like that, there’s a huge gap. Skelmose is with Harold Tejada (XDS Astana Team) and one other dude but never mind, I think it’s—whoa, Mas attacks!

Only Onley can respond!

They blow right by Skelmose! He no longer exists!

Wow, Mas looks really strong, he’s just drilling it. And now Onley takes a turn at the front and the group is just scattered. Only Roglic can hang on ... for now.

Behind, Gall has faded and then Roglic. The two drag along for a bit and others catch up. 

Now Roglic has dropped everyone else and has 15 seconds to … no, the screen is wrong. He’s already bridged up!

Mas punches it again and Roglic is dumped instantly. Onley looks good, though.

The peloton has been blown to bits, it’s every man for himself. With 1.2 kilometers to go, it doesn’t look like Roglic can make it back. Cripes, Mas is just drilling it on the front. But Roglic is tenacious, he just keeps clawing away.

They head for the line and Mas leads it out like a boss! He’s crushing it! Onley is clearly in agony!

And Mas has got the win! Brilliant!

Roglic comes in for third and he’s so tired, he can’t even keep his tongue in his mouth.

It seemed like a great move from Carapaz but I reckon he either went too early, or brought the wrong legs today. He comes over in ninth.

So Onley only loses four seconds (due to the time bonus) today, a great ride for him even if Mas was the star of the day. If only Onley can keep this gap down, he might overtake Mas in the GC in the second half of this Vuelta.

Here’s the stage result.

It’s funny: after all the work Gall’s team did to set him up, and all the little mincing attacks he mounted, he ends up losing 18 seconds to Mas, plus another 10 from the time bonus. So he’s not nearly as impressive as his namesake, the tree gall, which is a bizarre phenomenon whereby a gall wasp lays an egg inside the tree’s tissues, and when the larva hatches it releases all these plant hormones and other compounds that cause this kind of weird blister to form on the tree, and this blister becomes like a nursery for the larva which, safely ensconced, feeds on the gall tissue as it grows. Compared to all that, Mas’s futile attacks and fourth place finish don’t seem very impressive. Gall must find Mas’s dominance, and this coverage of it, pretty galling.

And here’s the new GC. Quite a shakeup and Kuss drops to seventh.

They’re interviewing Mas.

INTERVIEWER: [unintelligible]

MAS: You’ve seen the team today, everyone working together so well, thanks very much also to the directors in the car as well.

INTERVIEWER: Why do you winners always do this? During the race you demonstrate individual dominance, crushing out your rivals like a cigarette, and then afterward you get all faux-humble and blather on about your team. It’s totally unconvincing.

MAS: The team was great, everyone was so calm.

INTERVIEWER: Dude. They were off the back. What are you talking about, calm? They were nowhere! When you needed them they straight-up evaporated! They were probably shitting bricks back there, at least they better have been!

MAS: I feel as though going forward I will be very calm, I had great sensations in the legs today.

INTERVIEWER: Is “calm” some kind of code word for “my team sucks and I’m the man!”?

MAS: You do not seem very calm. Do you need a minute to collect yourself?

Note: if you’re new to albertnet, you should know that I don’t speak any Spanish so when I’m translating these interviews, I take inspiration from AI and just blatantly make shit up. Rest assured, though, the fiction above is far closer to the truth than anything Mas actually said. If that makes any sense.

Bob Roll says, “It feels like a thousand light-years since Roglic won a Grand Tour.” This is the second time in this Vuelta he’s mistaken “light-years,” a measure of distance, for a measure of time. Also, a thousand light-years is the very height of exaggeration; that would be 5.879 quadrillion miles, whereas Roglic won the Vuelta as recently as two years ago.

Onley only had a lead of three seconds in the Young Rider classification as recently as Stage 6, but now that’s up to 5:45, a probably insurmountable margin. Am I deliberately contriving sentences to juxtapose “only” with “Onley”? You bet your sweet ass I am. And if only Onley only had a handful of seconds over second as before, the white jersey competition would be a lot more exciting. But let’s not diminish this achievement, as Onley only owns one such distinction so far in this Vuelta.

Christian and Bob are comparing the times of riders on this climb vs. the last time the Vuelta was here. “These riders went four minutes faster, almost five, that’s light-years,” Christian says, and then—as if catching himself—goes on to say, “that’s kilometers ahead.” So he course-corrected with regard to distance vs. time, although a kilometer is only 1.057 × 10⁻¹³ (i.e., 0.0000000000001057) light-years so this is still a gross exaggeration.

Well, nothing interesting is going on with the awards ceremony because there are no podium girls anywhere and no champagne either. It’s the most stripped-down podium presentation I’ve ever seen, they aren’t even giving out merchandise prizes like wheels of cheese, wooden bowls, or salad dressing like in other stage races. I was about ready to wrap this coverage up when I realized I should whet your appetite a bit for the rest of this Vuelta. It’s far from decided, because Roglic trails the GC by only 1:18, with a significant 32-kilometer mostly flat time trial coming in Stage 18. Roglic is a far better time trialist than Mas, Onley, and Gall, and seems to be riding into form in this Vuelta. We can expect a shakeup, and then I’ll be back to report on the queen stage, that being Stage 20, on September 12. BE THERE! (Well, here.)

—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—
Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Ask an Insensitive Man

Dear Insensitive Man,

My husband won’t admit his own insecurities and masks them by finding fault with other men, in a transparent effort to bolster his own ego. For example: he totally bags on men who ride electric scooters. I mean, these guys are getting around quickly, doing something for climate change, and not hurting anyone … what’s the problem? Is there any way, short of expensive counseling, to shore up my husband’s self esteem so he’ll stop doing this?

Martha V, Portland, OR

Dear Martha,

Does your husband criticize all kinds of other men and this is one example among many? Because if it’s just the scooters, I think you’re misinterpreting the situation. Any person in his—or her—right mind would rightly lambast adults riding scooters. I mean, have some dignity! Be a grown-up! No amount of energy efficiency is worth discarding one’s self-respect. Also consider that those things are a menace, due to their small wheels and their silent, swift tendency to appear out of nowhere. Imagine the unfortunate motorist who kills a scooter rider and has to live with the memory of that, even if the person killed was a twit.

Dear Insensitive Man,

I get no empathy from my husband when I open up to him about how hard ageing is on me, especially when I contemplate how saggy and crepey my neck is getting. He just blows me off like my grievance is unimportant. Does he just not even see me anymore?

Candace R, Newark, NJ

Dear Candace,

Men don’t care about necks, only women do (and of course you’re in good company, what with Nora Ephron’s classic essay “I Feel Bad About My Neck”). Generally if a man, be it your husband or anybody else, is looking anywhere in the vicinity of your head, he’ll notice your mouth and eyes more. And it’s widely accepted that many a man may call himself “a tits man” or “an ass man,” but I have yet to meet a “neck man.” I mean, think about it: can you imagine a guy describing a first date to a pal and having the pal ask, “So … how’s her neck?” It’s absurd. (Again, if you’re worried about what other women think about your neck, that’s an  entirely different matter. Just don’t go dragging us men into it.)

Dear Insensitive Man,

I am eight months pregnant and my husband seems oblivious to all the suffering and indignity I’m going through, what with the weight gain, the nausea, my feet hurting all the time, and on and on. How can I wake him up and maybe get a little empathy, or at least some more help around the house?

Kim Reed, Oakland, CA

Dear Kim,

If your husband is normally more sympathetic, such as when you’ve got the flu or a twisted ankle, you might chalk this up to him not knowing how to react to the pregnancy, given the strangeness of your metamorphosis and the drastic life change and awesome responsibility he knows is about to descend upon your lives. (Or maybe I’m just making excuses … after all, when my wife complained about such pregnancy-related discomforts, I replied, “If it’s any consolation, I feel great!”) Hang in there, shame your husband into helping more, and hope for the best. And don’t worry, you’ll get to turn the tables one day when it’s time for his vasectomy and he gets dry-shaved with a 25-cent Bic. Sure, his suffering will be briefer than yours, but at least you’ll have a moment to throw it in his face … that and every other trivially painful situation he may encounter after witnessing childbirth.

Dear Insensitive Man,

I truly believe there is something wrong with my husband. Although he’s a loving father and enjoys reading to our young daughters, he’s managed time and again to read aloud the brilliantly touching Love You Forever children’s book, from cover to cover, without crying at the end. Not a single tear, not once! How is this possible? Is he actually a heartless, unfeeling iceberg?

Sarah M, Topeka, KS

Dear Sarah,

Don’t worry, there is nothing wrong with your husband. He doesn’t cry while reading Love You Forever simply because the book is actually not that touching. When you cry reading it, it’s probably because it’s giving you a good excuse, and you were probably going to cry sooner or later anyway. Let me tell you a story: in college, a friend once invited me to movie night at her sorority house. This seemed like a great deal: a free movie and snacks, plus I’d be surrounded by beautiful girls I could possibly hit on! The problem was, the movie was “Fried Green Tomatoes,” a total chick-flick. Before the opening credits were even over, every single girl was already crying, and then as the movie progressed they all shot daggers at me. It seems I’d stumbled into what was probably supposed to be a female bonding ritual, basically a chance to cry together, and maybe Love You Forever is in that insta-cry vein. (All this being said, if your husband can make it through reading The Gardner aloud without crying, why then yes, something is wrong with him.)

Dear Insensitive Man,

My brother-in-law accused my husband of, and I quote, “whining like a little bitch.” My husband hasn’t said anything about it, but I think his feelings were really hurt. Would it be inappropriate for me to confront my brother-in-law and let him know he owes his brother an apology?

Jan K, Cheney, WA

Dear Jan,

Most of my friends call me a whiny little bitch from time to time, and it doesn’t bother me a bit—this is just how a lot of men talk. In fact, it’s almost like a compliment, because it means they know I can take it. And if occasionally I reply, “That really hurts my feelings,” they know I’m joking. Now, if you’re worried about “bitch” being sexist, consider that many modern men call each other “bitch” all the time, and that it’s gradually evolving into a gender-neutral term, via a process linguists call “semantic bleaching.”

Dear Insensitive Man,

My husband is a big pain in the ass when it comes to hiring a tradesman, such as a plumber or handyman. It’s like his male ego can’t handle it. So he says he’ll do something, but then puts it off. Even when I suggest he hire somebody simply because he has better things to do with his time, he acts all butt-hurt. Is there no way out?

Tina O, Brooklyn, NY

Dear Tina,

I can see two main sources for your husband’s hesitation, and both may apply. One, he’s a cheap bastard; two, he doesn’t want to admit he’s incapable. Don’t be too bummed about this; I mean, imagine if your guy was lame, and shameless, and didn’t even know how to change the filter in your furnace or program your thermostat, or if he paid a bike shop to fix a flat tire on your commuter bike. (Is it wrong of me to assume you’d look to him to do these things? Of course it is, I’m an insensitive man!) As for the solution, that’s easy: wait until he’s away all day at a ball game or camping trip, and hire the handyman while he’s gone. When he gets home and acts all irritated, a) consider that he’s probably faking it and is secretly relieved, and b) turn it around and say, “Honey, I wanted it to be a surprise!” (Note: don’t say “honey” unless you routinely call him this. My wife only says “honey” when she’s pissed at me.)

Dear Insensitive Man,

A friend of mine recently transitioned to a new gender identity. My dad is sloppy—perhaps conveniently sloppy—about remembering my friend’s chosen name and affirmed pronoun. I think my dad is being passive-aggressive, and that deep down inside he is reluctant or even unwilling to adapt to this societal evolution. Is there some way to get through to this man?

Alicia C, Los Angeles, CA

Dear Alicia,

I suspect it’s the case that your dad is actually trying, but is having difficulty shedding the habit of using the deadname and previous pronoun, especially if he’s known your friend for years. That you say “sloppy” suggests that your dad sometimes gets it right, whereas a non-affirming traditionalist is likely to be boldly defiant and unapologetic. If your dad apologizes, he probably means it and you should cut him some slack. But if he slanders your friend’s transition openly, you have my permission to kick your old man in the balls.

Dear Insensitive Man,

My husband is a generous tipper when he tips, but he seems a bit stingy when deciding who deserves a tip and who doesn’t. For example, when we were traveling recently he didn’t tip a really friendly hotel concierge who gave us great advice on a local restaurant. What do you do with a husband who is insensitive to the service sector?

Lisa S, New Haven, CT

Dear Lisa,

If your husband tips baristas, hotel maids, cab drivers, parking valets, and bartenders, and at counter-service restaurants, I doubt he’s insensitive to the service sector. Frankly, I wouldn’t have tipped the concierge either—it’s that guy’s job to be generally helpful and courteous, and to be given a cash tip for dispensing friendly advice might actually insult him. Ask yourself this: did your husband tip you the first time you had sex? Did you wish he had?

Dear Insensitive Man,

Is it possible to be too sensitive? It seems like my son does all the dishes for his entire household. Every time we talk on the phone I hear him doing dishes in the background. Is my daughter-in-law taking advantage of him?

Jill A, Ashland, OH

Dear Jill,

I don’t think this is about sensitivity or progressivism, but probably just an arrangement that works. Does your son’s wife do more of the cooking than he does? If so, this could be a perfectly fair trade. It could also be that on some level your husband actually enjoys doing the dishes, or at least finds it soothing. It also could be that, if he’s punctilious and efficient about it and you are slapdash, that he’d rather do it right than have you do it wrong. I watched some stand-up comic on Netflix recently who said there are two kinds of men: those who have a particular way of loading the dishwasher, and those who step out on their wives. I think she’s on to something.

Dear Insensitive Man,

My boyfriend has this nagging habit of pooh-poohing very real world problems like climate change, overpopulation, and threats to democracy. Particularly when these are discussed among friends, he just clams up, though he’s normally a pretty gregarious guy. People we socialize with may well get the idea he just doesn’t care about anything, when I know this man’s heart is good. How can I housetrain him to be more politic?

Vivian L, San Francisco, CA

Dear Vivian,

Hang on to that guy, he could be a good influence on you! If he really doesn’t care, that could be a red flag, but it’s just as likely he simply doesn’t consider these worthy topics of conversation—in which case I agree 100%. I mean, what are you and your friends going to actually solve, unless you are in politics or members of a think tank? Maybe he needs to housetrain you to be less political.

Dear Insensitive Man,

I have just started shaving. While I was home from college for the summer, my dad watched me shave with my new Gillette ProGlide razor and started giving me a hard time for how I let the “Shaving Industrial Complex” dupe me into overspending on blades just because I’m afraid I might cut myself. He called my razor a “child’s toy.” He’s normally a pretty good guy but what the actual fuck?! Can you tell him how lame he’s being so I can show him the column and get him to lighten up?

Henry C, Las Cruces, NM

Dear Henry,

I hate to break it to you, but your dad is completely in the right on this one. It looks like the replacement blades for your razor run about four bucks apiece, vs. under 25 cents for a proper double-edged blade, made for a traditional steel razor, that actually provides a closer shave. The ProGlide is stupid, plastic, and does look like a toy, and you need to man up here. Shaving is just not that complicated. If you need inspiration check out “Ode on a Double-Edged Razor.”

An Insensitive Man is a syndicated journalist whose advice column, “Ask an Insensitive Man,” appears in over 0 blogs worldwide.

—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—
Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

DUMB Goals in Action!

Introduction

If you were a cyclist in your mid- to late-50s, and I promised I could help you improve your average riding speed by 5%, and/or lower the time of your 20-mile evening loop by an average of six minutes, while maintaining or even lowering the amount of time you spent training, would you be interested? Now let’s assume you aren’t a cyclist: would you still like to know how I’ve actually achieved these strides—among others—simply by setting a DUMB goal and working casually toward it? Well, read on. That’s what this post is about.

But first … what is a DUMB goal?

Years ago in these pages (here!) I derided the ballyhooed but also hackneyed “SMART” goals that motivational speakers like to trot out. SMART generally stands for  Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Relevant, and Time-bound. I dislike this framework because it makes you decide in advance what success really looks like, when so often we have no idea. Consider workplace revenue goals: their feasibility is at the mercy of industry trends, the economy in general, and the skill of those trying to decide what a reasonable target really is. Only once in my thirty-plus-year career did a director push back; after a missed revenue goal, he told his leadership, “We don’t have a performance problem—you have a forecasting problem.” (He didn’t last long.)

Let’s consider a SMART goal of losing fifteen pounds by December 1. That’s specific, measurable, possibly attainable (depending on the person and how overweight he or she is), perhaps relevant (if a doctor recommended the weight loss and/or the person feels bad), and clearly time-bound. But is it a good goal? I think not. Suppose a person exercises a bunch, eats really well, and ends up only ten pounds lighter on December 1. He or she might feel bummed out at having failed. But what if he or she had actually lost fifteen pounds of fat and gained five pounds of muscle, but doesn’t know it? The specificity becomes a setback. The person may feel demoralized and less inclined to bother with the new lifestyle—which brings up another issue, which is that making this goal time-bound kind of suggests the project  is over, when of course a noble goal like a better lifestyle  should be a lifelong habit, regardless of silly metrics.

That’s why in a subsequent blog post (here!) I proposed an alternative: DUMB goals. This type of goal is Duplicate,  Unimpressive, Mealy-mouthed, and Best-effort. Am I kidding? Well, of course I always seek to amuse, but actually, I’m completely serious. Consider:

• Duplicate: A goal you failed at already—never mind what anyone else tells you—is a great goal to try again at because if an attempted improvement was important to you before, that probably hasn’t changed. Failing to achieve something attests only to its difficulty and is no excuse for giving up.
• Unimpressive: Too often, a goal puts too much emphasis on getting credit, on getting noticed. By gaining too much social payoff just for stating your flashy goal, you can actually reduce the likelihood of achieving it, because your ego gets stroked before you’ve even succeeded (as described here).
• Mealy-mouthed: Being too specific, as with the weight loss example described above, can set you up to feel like a failure even when real progress is being made. Being more vague gives better elasticity to the tricky, messy business of self-improvement.
• Best-effort: Defining success as pass/fail can lead to a sense that you’re done, or conversely that a goal is futile … and either way, you may be inclined to check—or strike—the goal off your list. Treating your goal as an ongoing attempt at improvement can keep it alive indefinitely.

But do DUMB goals actually work?

My original post about DUMB goals, being on the theme of New Year’s Resolutions, was more hypothetical than empirical. The idea was to shift the reader’s thinking about how to formulate a better resolution. But over the last two years—and especially the last ten months—I’ve actually made startlingly good progress on a DUMB goal of my own.

Here’s the goal: as I age, I want to build and maintain as much strength and vigor as possible, on and off the bike, while improving my balance so I don’t fall and break a hip when I’m 80.

How DUMB is this? Very. Is it Duplicate? Well, I’ve been fretting about the ravages of age for, well, ages—my first blog post on this (here!) was over 17 years ago. Is the goal Unimpressive? Yeah, I’d say—it’s not as bold as planning my first Tough Mudder or marathon; I mean, who doesn’t want to age gracefully? And is it Mealy-mouthed? Sure—it doesn’t apply any metrics. And it’s clearly Best-effort, with the vague “as much as possible” element that gives me all kinds of wiggle room.

Now, this isn’t to say a DUMB goal is no better than no goal at all. Instead of breaking a lofty aim down into very time-bound and measurable milestones, with progress tracked carefully, as one would with traditional goals, a DUMB goal like mine can be simply directional: without getting too meticulous about it, what general lifestyle changes might take me in the right direction?

And this, as I learned kind of by accident, is the secret sauce of DUMB goals: you can make huge strides by selecting just a few general behaviors which should bring the goal closer, and then focusing on the process of executing these behaviors as well as possible. Getting feedback on your progress in the  moment, as opposed to periodically measuring yourself against some (frankly kind of arbitrary) goal, turns out to be incredibly powerful. I love this quote from an article about parenting in the NY Times: “A Dutch father of three told me about his Buddhist-inspired approach: total commitment to the process, total equanimity about the outcome.”

General behavioral change #1: balance saucer

I wrote already about my balance saucer, here. And it’s been great. I ditched the directions and started with just a vague idea of the kinds of motion I wanted to do (e.g., tapping the front edge of the saucer on the floor with both feet on the saucer; tapping the back edge; tapping forward on one foot; backward on one foot). At first I couldn’t even do them all; the backward-on-one-foot seemed impossible. But it wasn’t, and when even that got too easy, I started adding in other stuff to do on the saucer: standing on one foot pulling a knee to my chest; standing on one foot and sticking a leg out straight; doing a slow, all-the-way-down squat; putting on my shoe and tying it while standing on the other foot. I avoided the drudgery of trudging toward milestones; my saucer tricks are more like what the Cat in the Hat would do (e.g., now I’ll balance on the saucer with this fishbowl on my cane!) or the ways Tom, of Captain Najork fame, enjoys just messing about. Maybe I’ll work up to a one-legged squat, or juggling while tapping on one foot, or doing all this while drunk (kidding!).

Though I had no objective other than to buy this saucer and use it, I can tell you now my balance has improved significantly. For example, I can now ride the white line of the road shoulder on my bike, not just coasting, but pedaling at full power, even out of the saddle. (It’s rare to learn a new trick after forty-five years in this sport.) Not only that, my core seems a lot stronger: my back never hurts anymore (knock wood), and basic tasks like putting on socks and shoes have become easier and more fun.

General behavioral change #2: join a gym

Lots of people join gyms, and then they don’t go, and they feel bad, and they fall behind in their SMART goals, and the whole thing is just a big drag. But I’m the world’s cheapest man, so when I join a gym I actually go, just to get my money’s worth. Meanwhile, half the reason I joined is that my wife wanted me to, so I could go with her and, as needed, kick the asses of any creepy guys there. (That’s the theory, anyway; so far everyone has behaved, which is a big disappointment.) So when my wife signs up for a class, I head over there with her, because honestly I seldom have a good excuse not to.

Now, I could ruin all this by making SMART goals around the gym workout, like gaining or losing some number of pounds, or adding some measurable amount of visible bulk, or being able to bench press some specific weight. But I’m too DUMB for that, so all I did is get a tour from the gym staffer, showing me a generic circuit training regimen that is popular, and that’s all I do, with no real programmatic rigor other than always being in motion. I get it that if you want to become huge and swole via a specific machine, you have to sit there for fifteen minutes between sets, scrolling on your phone, so your muscles “recover” or some damn thing, but that’s not a good use of my time.

I started off setting the machines to really low weight, just to keep from maiming myself, on the assumption that anything is better than nothing. I do fifteen minutes of cardio on  the elliptical machine to warm up, then do my circuit training, in order of whatever weight machine is open next so I don’t have to stand around waiting for some dude on his phone working toward a SMART goal. My routine takes almost exactly an hour. Now, as long as I’m there I might as well do a good job, which means paying attention to how my body handles each exercise so I can gradually, but safely, increase the weight over time. And since all the muscles in my body other than my legs have been neglected my entire life, progress is swift even at my advanced age. On the leg press I’ve gone from 90 pounds last October to 155 pounds today; on the rowing-esque machine I’ve gone from 35 to 80; on the shoulder press from 20 to 55; and so on. As with the balance saucer, working toward a DUMB goal helps keep things fun and stress-free. It’s hard to miss developmental milestones when the only one you have is “go to the gym a few times a week.”

And has all this paid off? It sure has. It’s a fun new routine with my wife, biking to the Y and back for our workouts; the improved core and back strength I touted earlier is probably partly due to this regimen; and, believe it or not, the arm warmers in my cycling costume stay up better than they used to. In fact, my biceps look a bit less like the almost two-dimensional blades of an oar and more like normal arms (though I dare not suggest they’re muscular, at least not yet). I’ve gained seven pounds, and it’s not in my belly so I’m going to call it an improvement. And, as you’re about to find out, the weight room circuit training might actually be helping with my cycling.

General behavioral change #3: use a power meter

About a year ago I bought a new road bike. As detailed here, it’s a totally sweet machine, and even came with a built-in power meter (that is, a strain gauge in the crankarm), which measures my output in watts and sends it to my bike computer. The power-meter-capable bike computer is sold separately, and after a brief struggle—dragged out by misplaced faith in AI—I got it working just in time for the new year, so I could switch platforms without messing up last year’s stats. Figuring that this new tool could probably help me somehow in my DUMB goal to age more gracefully, I started fiddling with it during my rides, studying the numbers and wondering vaguely, in the spirit of Alice as she tumbles down the rabbit hole toward Wonderland, how its data could help me improve. What I eventually realized is that my average power output for a ride exceeds what I’m doing at various points during it, and this represents a major area for improvement.

Let me explain. On a typical ride, my power output will average around 210 watts (or 250 “normalized” watts, meaning the average after all the very low readings from almost coasting, etc. are discarded). So I have been challenging myself during rides by asking, “Why is my output below 200 watts right now?” And for that matter, why should it ever be below 200, if I know I’m capable of maintaining that? Unless I’m doing a tricky descent, there’s really no good reason. To have a wide variance in effort during a ride just boils down to laziness (albeit a less drastic version than coasting when you could pedal). Despite my long tradition of making myself suffer during rides, I also have the human habit of conserving energy where possible, instinctively. Once I started paying more attention to my power output in the moment, throughout the ride, I started seeing the duration of my standard evening loop drop, and then drop some more.

Now, managing my effort better on a ride, nipping and tucking the lazy bits, might not seem like a game-changer; I mean, I get home a couple minutes earlier but so what? Well, as I eventually realized, going harder, consistently, all the time, actually improves your fitness. I mean, duh! It kills me how long I took to realize this actually, since it’s so obvious. But what I found is that the more I managed to keep the intensity up, ride after ride, the faster I got, and the more fun I had, and the more motivated I got. I discovered that the biggest improvement was in my power output while riding in the saddle, probably due to the increase in my core strength from the balance saucer. The muscular strength from the gym must be a factor too, because my fitness just seem to start to compound, like a freakin’ 401(k).

Improvement by the numbers

Here are some numbers to illustrate how crazy my progress has been. It’s a bit hard to compare my performance since a year ago (since during that period I had to alter my evening route due to a road closure), but my average speed over my longer (mostly weekend) rides went from 15.1 mph last August to 16.0 now, with most of the improvement coming since March, when my average was 15.2 mph. That’s a 5% improvement in speed, for the longer rides, in about four months.

But you know, my average speed during longer rides is a bit diluted, because loafing is naturally a bigger part of a 65-mile weekend ride with friends. My 20-mile after-work solo spin represents about three fourths of my rides, so this is where most of my fitness is built. It’s also where my improvement has been the most dramatic: last March my solo loop took me, on average, 1:24 (an hour 24 minutes), and this past month only 1:18. Can you imagine shaving six minutes off a 20-mile loop? And it’s not just that I’m bothering to ride faster; I’m capable of riding faster—much faster. My best time for this loop last March was 1:23, and a couple weeks ago I did it in under 1:14. Nine minutes faster. Are you kidding me?

But wait, this gets even better. I happen to track my total exercise duration pretty closely because I do an online DIY training contest with my family, and when I compare July 2025 to this past July, I see that my total duration actually declined significantly, from 58:12 (58 hours 12 minutes) in July 2025 to 45:26 last month. It’s nuts: I’m training less and my performance is soaring. All because I keep adding balance saucer tricks, gradually upping the weight on the gym exercise machines, and striving to maintain higher power throughout my rides. All in the service of this one DUMB goal.

And here’s probably the best part: all of my improvement has been, ultimately, gravy. Sure, I’m closely measuring and tracking my power, time, and speed on the bike, and my weight selection in the gym, but not in the service of holding myself accountable to anything. If this rate of improvement levels off next month, or even starts to drop, I won’t get discouraged, because remember my goal: to build and maintain as much strength and vigor as possible, while improving my balance, as I age. All I have to do is not decline. Actually, to not decline too fast. Best-effort!

Unimpressive

A final note: I want to emphasize the “U” in this DUMB goal: unimpressive. Consider how bored you’ve been getting over the last few paragraphs. That’s because, as important as my progress is to me, you couldn’t care less—and shouldn’t. This is why I think goals should be personal, and essentially private. I only present my experience to you as an illustration of what you yourself may achieve if you stop beating yourself up with SMART (or even just traditional) goals, and start thinking DUMB! Good luck with it!

—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—
Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.