From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XIX

Introduction

This is the nineteenth 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, and Volume XVIII is here. This post holds the distinction of having the first palindromic volume number since Volume III. (Should you care? No. I don’t even care.) The different volumes have nothing to do with one another, and can be read in order, out of order, in pecking order, in good order, in court order, or in compliance with—or in defiance of—a restraining order.

What are albertnet Bits & Bobs? They’re the little bits of fascinating literary background that my biographer would be thrilled to discover, were I important enough and/or interesting enough to deserve a biography. These tidbits are like what magazines like Us or People Weekly would report on, vis-à-vis celebrities, if these periodicals employed text instead of just photos, and if I were really good looking. Most of these Bits & Bobs are snippets from personal correspondence. Others were written indelibly on my wrist or my psyche with a Sharpie.

The city where I was living at the time of each morsel is provided except where it’s Albany. Pay attention to the dates. Some of these dispatches are hella old. Others are just hecka old.

October 31, 1989 – Santa Barbara

I’ve had a bet with a bunch of guys on the cycling team since last year about the height of Australian cycling superstar Phil Anderson. [For context: this website ranks Phil the 40th best cyclist of all time; it ranks Greg LeMond only 67th.] Someone was trying to say Phil is only like 5’8” or 5’10” or something, which is absurd. I rode with him back to Boulder after the Coors Classic Morgul Bismark stage once, and he seemed a lot taller than that, giving me a great draft (though frankly he was a bit gassy). Anyway, Phil actually lives near here, and he went to a bike gear swap meet this past weekend to sell off some old clothing and such. My pals and I were all there so it was my chance to finally settle the argument. Just between you and me, Phil didn’t really look six feet tall after all. Nevertheless, I casually strolled over to him as though I hadn’t been a major fan for many years (ever since he was the first non-European to wear the yellow jersey in the Tour de France). My friends followed a small distance behind. I guess they were shy.

First, I tried to sell Phil an old Dura-Ace derailleur (just to see the look of pure incredulity on his face, which did not disappoint). Then I told him about the bet and asked him if he was in fact six feet tall. “Aye, I’m six one,” he said, in his cool Australian accent. I turned to J—, my main opponent in the debate, and said, “See! I told you so.” To my astonishment, J— actually tried to argue with Phil about it. That must have taken all the chutzpah he had, since if anything he’s an even bigger fan than I am. How do you simultaneously worship and refute such a vaunted celebrity? Phil told him, “Of course you look taller, mate, look at the thick shoes yer wearing!” J— was pissed (but not as pissed as he’ll eventually be after the tenth or twentieth time I tell this story). The victory could not have been sweeter, not even if Phil had indeed been six feet tall.

November 28, 1989 – Santa Barbara

I have a paper due in my Western History class and decided (based on a suggestion from the T.A.) to explain the Greek philosophy thread in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I’m not that interested in Greek philosophy, or even in history to be honest, but I wanted to read the Zen book anyway. So, I went to the library to get some reference books, and checked out two books on Plato’s Phaedrus character. I have to admit, I was in a rush and didn’t really vet them very thoroughly. So I got home, opened them up, and discovered that one of them is in Greek and another in Latin. Damn it!

March 9, 1996 – San Francisco

I was in my boss’s office when the regional director came in, and he invited us to go out for sushi after work, at a place near the office. (I assume I was invited because I happened to be in the room and it would’ve been rude to exclude me.) I don’t really know from good sushi but it all tasted pretty good. The director wanted to order sea urchin but wasn’t sure he wanted a full order to himself. Oddly, nobody seemed to want to share any with him. I’d never had it but thought well, how bad could it be? So I was like, “Yeah, I love sea urchin, let’s do it!” I mean, I just didn’t want the guy to not get his urchin, since we were all in such a festive and boisterous mood. Well, it turns out urchin is just this big glob of goo, kind of the consistency of a really bad mango, roughly the color of mustard. It was really disgusting—tastes like feet or something—but I had to play along, having pretended to be a fan. Well, I guess my acting was too good because the director was like, “Yeah, this is great, let’s get another round!”

The meal went on for a long time—we just kept ordering and ordering (must’ve cost a ton) and suddenly I realized I’d never called home and let E— know I wouldn’t be home for dinner. So I went to a pay phone and called. She was like, “Where are you, you need to get home! I got the job! We need to celebrate!” (She’d been interviewing for her first job as a full-on journalist.) So I went back out to the group and let them know I had to bail. My boss asked if everything was okay and I gave him the good news. “Wait … so you’re going out to celebrate, as in dinner?!” he asked, incredulous. I was like, “Well, yeah! We’re going to I Fratelli!” (That’s our favorite local Italian place). This didn’t seem like any big deal to me—as you know I’ve been duel-dinnering for many years—but the episode made me kind of a celebrity at work. My boss even clipped a cartoon of some bloated-looking guy fiddling with his belly, which had the caption, “Having forgotten to save room for dessert, Carl switches to his auxiliary stomach.” My boss changed “Carl” to “Dana” and “dessert” to “Italian dinner” and posted it in the break room.

August 4, 1996 – San Francisco

You should be able to find a used modem pretty easily, since the technology is improving all the time. Email doesn’t require a very fast modem, whereas veteran computer users like to download graphics, etc. which does. So, a lot of people have probably upgraded and have perfectly good, albeit slow, modems lying around gathering dust. See if you can find one, because I really think you’d like e-mail. It’s like letter writing but less formal (and of course doesn’t take 2-3 days to deliver).

August 22, 2009

Well, we’re back from London. You probably don’t want to hear about how great it was (and if you do, click here). So I’ll fill you in on what didn’t go so well. On the second night we should have made dinner at the house, for reasons of economy, but were still jet-lagged and didn’t feel like grocery shopping. So instead, we went to this cool pub to get fish-and-chips. We were staying in a very non-touristy area called Ealing (“Queen of the Suburbs,” declared a postcard), and the locals seem to have a distaste for tourists, or small children, or both. I guess we should have been grateful the pub even allowed kids. Well, ours were behaving badly, making too much noise and fighting, and I kept shushing them (amidst the glares of the other patrons), and finally I warned them that if they misbehaved one more time we’d leave and make PBJs at the house. I really hoped they’d take me seriously because I’d just spied Guinness Extra Cold* on draft, which I’d never even heard of and wanted to try, but the kids kept fighting and I had to show them I was serious. So I declared we were leaving. Both kids shrieked in protest, and L— flat-out refused to go. So I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder in the fireman-carry. We marched out of there, the kids literally kicking and screaming. From now on, whenever I need to emphasize that I mean business, I’m going to remind the girls about “the pub incident.”

*Come to think of it, what the Brits call “Guinness Extra Cold” is probably what we Americans would just call “Guinness.” That is, only in the UK do they normally serve beer cool instead of properly cold.

September 15, 2009

I had one of those random showdowns during my bike ride today, the equivalent of a pickup game of basketball with a stranger. I felt decent on the Claremont climb, but not great—I was sick yesterday and E— is sick as a dog (102 fever). So I was pedaling okay, but nothing special. About 2/3 of a mile from the end of my climb, some dude came zipping by me. He was on a really fancy Look, and had pretty good form, and I let him go—at first. But then I noticed that a) he had these deep-section carbon rims, which I’m obviously envious of, and these superlight brakes that Mark has, that don’t work for beans, meaning the guy’s a total weight weenie, and b) he was spinning this really, really high cadence. Like he’s one of these modern angry bikers, the scolds who are telling me I need lower gearing, and he was all “Look at me, I’m spinning, it’s so efficient and won’t hurt my knees!” Needless to say I was insulted. Oh, Mr. Modern, Mr. Latest Cycling Theory, Mr. Fancy-pants Superlight Bike ... well, how would you like a little old-fashioned whup-ass?! He was well ahead at this point, but that just meant I’d have an even bigger head of steam when I came by him.

At least, that’s how I figured it, but he must’ve been peeking back at me because as I approached, he accelerated too. I eventually caught on and latched onto his wheel, and I won’t kid you—I was dying. I decided I’d hang on there for a good while summoning the strength and will to come by him, but then I changed my mind and figured it would be a bigger statement to drop his ass right away and somehow hold him off. The grade got a bit shallower here, which I figured would favor me, being all heavy and angry and all. So I blasted right by him, upshifting several times as I did so to make sure my cadence was nice and low … to make my point. And here’s where I got a sudden inspiration: how better to snub his limp, ineffectual gearing choice than to throw her in the big ring (or the “good ring” as I called it back when I was the founder and president of the UC Santa Barbara Big Ring Club)? 

So throw-her-in-the-big-ring I did, and then had to fricking slay myself to turn it over. Boy, my heart rate really soared here ... during the throw-down it averaged 172 bpm, peaking at 178 (matching my highest for the year). I spanked that over-equipped, pansy-spinning wanker so hard he’s probably out shopping and crying right now. It was glorious. By the time I got to turn off, to go down South Park Drive, he was so far back he probably didn’t even see me turn, which means he probably wondered where I went ... probably figured I reached escape velocity and achieved low earth orbit. Boo-ya, spinnyman!

December 23, 2009

Alas, for some reason the photo attached to your email didn’t come through correctly, it’s just a big blank box. Could you jiggle the little wire and try again?

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Exercise & the Gumption Trap

Introduction

When it comes to exercise, I’m a disciplined person. Last quarter, I managed some kind of physical activity for 89 out of 90 days, and I rode my bike 51 times (that is, four times a week). Would it surprise you, then, to learn that I struggle to find the motivation to exercise pretty much every single day? This post documents that struggle: why it persists, and how to overcome it.

The struggle

Among those of us fortunate enough to have the spare time and energy to exercise, I don’t think there’s anyone who’d dispute its benefits. Articles on this topic pepper my inbox and browser constantly, like one of those machines that shoot tennis balls. For example, today I stumbled on this one providing eighteen reasons to work out (among them higher energy, better mood, better sleep, better sex, lower anxiety, and lowered dementia risk). I really have no philosophical issue with the practice of exercise; I’m totally on board with the program.

Why, then, is it so hard to motivate myself, in the moment—to actually get out there and ride? You might answer, “You’re just lame, Dana!” but you know I’m not alone in this. We all struggle, as is documented every year in articles about failed New Year’s Resolutions. I think the problem comes down to gumption. You can resolve, at a macro level, to follow an exercise regimen, but that’s the easy part. As I’ve mentioned before in these pages, the intellect is adept at contriving lofty resolutions, but when it comes to remembering pain and suffering, the less sophisticated lizard brain is more realistic, and exerts an awful lot of influence over the organism as a whole.

Don’t get too hung up on “lizard brain,” by the way. I realize I’m no expert on brain science, but this is a useful concept metaphorically. The point is, the rational part of our brains fully grasps the many benefits of exercise, but it has to argue with the older part of our brain, that evolved over a couple hundred thousand years and understands the need to conserve energy, in case of famine. Sloth actually produces dopamine. To overcome our laziness impulse, then, requires gumption.

Gumption and gumption traps

A basic dictionary definition of gumption is “boldness of enterprise; initiative or aggressiveness.” For more nuance, I like how Robert Pirsig describes gumption in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance:

If you’re going to repair a motorcycle, an adequate supply of gumption is the first and most important tool. If you haven’t got that you might as well gather up all the other tools and put them away, because they won’t do you any good. Gumption is the psychic gasoline that keeps the whole thing going. If you haven’t got it there’s no way the motorcycle can possibly be fixed.

Even more helpful to this exploration is Pirsig’s concept of gumption traps. Pirsig points out that gumption isn’t “a fixed commodity” doled out at birth; it is, rather, “variable, a reservoir of good spirits that can be added to or subtracted from,” so we can define gumption trap as “anything that drains our enthusiasm.” He defines two main types: 1) setbacks, which are those caused by external circumstances, and 2) hang-ups, which derive from “conditions that are primarily within yourself.”

Where ego is concerned, it’s surely easier when we can blame setbacks for not exercising. For example, you figure you’ll exercise when you get home from work, but then you end up working late. Or, you get home from work and realize you’re too tired to work out, so you decide, “I’ll do it tomorrow instead, without fail!” (This little subroutine, of course, gets you nowhere.) Or, your buddies talk you into getting a drink after work, or your spouse/other has made a nice dinner or wants to go out. Or, or, or…. It can seem like almost anything can short-circuit the mythical evening workout.

Of course, many of these setbacks could be overcome; for example, did you really need to work late, or did your deep-seated fear of pain and suffering trick you into pretending there was work to be done? (Working from home may well increase the likelihood of this kind of rationalization.) For me, most of the struggle is around the non-circumstantial cause of not riding: that is, it’s the internal hang-up.

Internal gumption traps

Pirsig, who jokes about starting “a whole new academic field, gumptionology, in which these traps are sorted, classified, structured into hierarchies and interrelated for the edification of future generations and the benefit of all mankind,” identifies a variety of internal/hang-up gumption traps. The most germane one to my study of exercise resistance is anxiety, which he describes thus:

You’re so sure you’ll do everything wrong you’re afraid to do anything at all. Often this, rather than “laziness,” is the real reason you find it hard to get started. The gumption trap of anxiety, which results from overmotivation, can lead to all kinds of errors of excessive fussiness.

“Do everything wrong,” in Pirsig’s context, refers to screwing up a motorcycle repair, since that’s his central metaphor. But the concept applies also to sport, in the sense of performing poorly. In theory, only competitive athletes would care how well they go, one day to the next, but the widespread success of Strava proves otherwise. For anyone who used to race or still dabbles, the habit of monitoring, evaluating, and documenting our performance is deeply embedded. We don’t just want to get out on the bike; we want to ride well, we want to shred some gnar’, we want to put the pussy on the chainwax! This, to continue Pirsig’s concept, is the overmotivation. Which is why, as ride time approaches, we get anxious. At least, I do.

Ageing can compound this anxiety, because as we get older our bodies become less predictable, so heading out is like tossing the dice. Overmotivation aside, anxiety accrues because when we aren’t going well, a bike ride can be a pretty miserable affair, at least in the Berkeley hills where I ride. Based on my bike’s gearing I’m forced to suffer—there’s no taking it easy. If I’m not on a good day, this isn’t a matter of mere disappointment; it’s a case of Mother Nature kicking my sorry ass. Sure, when I have good legs (or “positive sensations,” in pro racer parlance), I get all kinds of adrenaline and endorphins and I “don’t feel the pedals,” as they say. Other days, it’s a brutal slog—and alas, I never know beforehand how it’ll go. No wonder I get anxious.

Does this lead to excessive fussiness? Well, that’s part of the problem: I have to mix my energy drink, suit up, check over my bike, clean the last ride’s sweat off my sunglasses, etc. but that’s not the real issue. (Pirsig, remember, happened to use motorcycle repair as his example, which surely is a much more complicated affair.) With working out, the excess is in rationalization, in pretending you’re too busy at work, or that you’re too tired, or that you should be worried about that sore throat, etc. Etc. Etc. A friend of mine used to like to say, “Listen to your body.” To which I reply, “Ignore your body. It’s a fricking liar.”

So what is to be done?

“Ignore your body.” Sounds kind of harsh, doesn’t it, like a dickhead coach or drill sergeant? Yeah, I was playing around, but only sort of. The fact is, self-loathing can play a part in this internal gumption trap dynamic. If excess motivation leads to anxiety, which in turn leads to procrastination or rationalization, and then the ride doesn’t happen, it’s natural to feel disappointed in oneself. To some degree, this disappointment serves a valid function: it inspires us to try harder next time. It’s a hedge against shameless laziness.

On the other hand, being more compassionate with oneself can help temper that excess motivation, to reel it in a bit, and perhaps reduce the anxiety. As I prepare for an evening ride (since, notwithstanding  the photo above of me procrastinating with the cat, my workday now starts too early to ride beforehand), that inner voice starts saying, “What if you’re not recovered from the last ride? What if your legs are shit?” My more compassionate side needs to answer, “Who cares. I’m not out to set any records or beat anybody. It’s enough just to ride.” Of course, this is easier said than done, which brings me to my next strategy: scale down the difficulty.

I stumbled on this by accident. One day, not feeling great, I skipped my first big climb, South Park Drive. Instead, I descended Wildcat Canyon Road. Such a cop-out! I was actually coasting downhill at the very moment I was supposed to be flogging myself going up! What a delicious sense of relief!

Of course, I still had to get back up over those hills to go home, which could have meant going up El Toyonal and Lomas Cantadas, which isn’t only a harder climb, but is harder to write a poem about, as explained here. Rider’s block and writer’s block at the same time! But instead, from El Toyonal I took a little bail-out road (part dirt) to get back to Wildcat, and thus a new route was born. It follows the dotted line labeled “cutover” below. Click the image. (Click ‘em all.)

Even though on most days I could do a much harder ride than this, I almost never do. If I finish my ride wishing it’d been longer, I’ll be that much more motivated the next time. This is how I “act my age” while still being an active guy. (And no, self-compassion will not make you a wuss.)

If you don’t feel like taking my word for it, here are some schematics showing how much easier my current standard route is from the route I did for like fifteen years, which I called the “Hill Climb Extravaganza,” aka HCE:

The HCE entails more than 4,000 feet of vertical gain in just under 25 miles. The modern ride climbs only 2,100 feet, in just under 21 miles—it’s basically only half as hilly.

But wait, there’s more. It’s not enough just to cut myself some slack due to age; since my tired days are really slow and awful, I have to make sure they don’t leave a bad taste in my mouth. So I also cut myself a deal: going into every ride, I promise myself that if I’m really riding badly, I’ll cut it short, shamelessly and unapologetically, even if that means turning around abruptly and retracing my route. After all, any ride is better than none.

Does this work? I wish I could say my scale-it-back protocol completely wipes out the gumption trap and the daily dread of the workout—but it doesn’t. For some reason, even though my rides are almost always fun, and I’m always glad I did them, I still routinely struggle with motivation beforehand. However, I’m almost never snared in the gumption trap—my system gets me over the hump, almost every time. And once I’m out there on the road or trail, if I’m feeling good, I give myself a jolly good thrashing. You don’t need a long ride to get a killer workout, after all … and prevailing in this daily struggle is what keeps me from becoming a mere former athlete.

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