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!

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More Advice From a MAMIL

Dear MAMIL,

In my regular “non-cycling” life I like to think I’m a natty dresser. I don’t skimp on my cycling kit, either. And yet I get the sense that when I roll up to the coffee shop for a group ride, the other guys are kind of snickering at me. What am I doing wrong?

John D, Oakland, CA

Dear John,

Right off the bat, I’d guess this is all in your head. Your cycling pals could be snickering about anything, or nothing, or the snickering could be a figment of your imagination. That said, cyclists can be a judgmental lot so let’s proceed with the assumption that they’re actually judging your costume. Starting with your assertion that you don’t skimp on your clothing, I’ll advise that one can spend a lot of money and still look foolish. For example, you could be wearing a WorldTour pro team kit when you’re clearly not on the team, which 41% of a panel of veteran cyclists deemed “laughably Fredtastic” (i.e., demonstrating the tone-deafness of a newb). Or, you could be wearing Rapha in a cycling community like mine where we all shun that brand as overpriced hipster apparel too closely associated with Team Ineos and Chris Froome. Or, you could be underdressed or overdressed, or rocking arm warmers with a sleeveless jersey, or doing something similarly silly. But don’t sweat it. You’ll develop a sense of style on the road just like you have in your non-cycling life. If you’re impatient, go ahead and query your friends (however politely or bluntly you wish, from “Is there something untoward about my choice of apparel?” to “Fuck you starin’ at?!”). Or, consult this article, bearing in mind that “fitting in” is not a fundamental, necessary, or even commendable aspect of the sport.

Dear MAMIL,

I am somewhat new to cycling (in my late thirties) and have lately been doing group rides. A couple times I’ve heard this or that MAMIL talking about “digging deep.” I kind of have a sense for what this must mean, but can you explain it to me?

Virgil S, Louisville, CO

Dear Virgil,

As a former bike racer, I use this term to describe the kind of over-the-top suffering that we racer-types assume can only be achieved by the likes of us; that is, cyclists who have frequently found themselves in do-or-die race situations requiring the kind of massive effort that would frighten a recreational cyclist. Through trial and error we realize that we’re actually capable of more pain than we’d ever thought possible, because it means the difference between glorious victory and heartbreaking defeat. Do this enough times and you begin to think you’re special, and that casual cyclists couldn’t even begin to relate to what you can put yourself through. This is the essence of “digging deep.”

The problem with this expression is that if you use it outside your tight cabal of racer-types, and your audience doesn’t automatically feel included (due, perhaps, to not having raced), he or she or they may catch a whiff of arrogance in this usage. And then—depending on the pool of rapport available and/or the number of beers you’ve all consumed—he or she or they might give you a hard time about this usage, not just in the moment but repeatedly over time, almost as if to taunt you for your superciliousness. As you may have already guessed, this has happened to me with a pal who—though he hasn’t ever raced—recently completed a 400-kilometer ride. I don’t think anyone achieves that without digging deep. So use this term carefully.

Dear MAMIL,

You’ve gotta help me. I’m a teenage girl and the Lycra bike shorts my dad wears are disgusting. They’re so worn out they’re starting to become transparent in places! Some even have holes in the sides! It wouldn’t be such a big deal except he rides an indoor trainer and likes to parade around the house before and after his workout. My brother and I even chipped in and bought him a brand new pair of shorts but he doesn’t wear them, claiming he’s “saving” them for special rides. Would it be ethically wrong for me to “disappear” some of his worst clothing?

Lydia L, Portland, OR

Dear Lydia,

That really is a tough bind! Cycling clothing is notoriously expensive, and the Lycra often wears out before the chamois—so it can be difficult for a cheap bastard to part with them. Fortunately, there’s a modern solution: buy your dad a pair of baggy mountain-bike style shorts. I used to think these were pointless since they don’t have a chamois, but actually, that works in your favor: he can wear his thrashed old disgusting shorts under the baggy ones. A fellow mountain biking coach pointed this out to me … he is stoked to be getting a second life out of all his old road shorts. Give that a try!

Dear MAMIL,

I confess that I am officially a MAMIL, but I’m apparently still something of a “newb” since I’ve “only” been cycling for about five years. As difficult as this sport is, I thought I’d get some respect from the non-cyclists in my life. But instead they seem to cast aspersions. My sister-in-law said I’m at real risk for giving myself a heart attack, and a couple of people have said cycling actually reduces bone density. What’s the deal? Did I choose the wrong sport?

Jeff B, Columbus, OH

Dear Jeff,

I’ve been hearing rumors for well over a decade that too much exercise can damage your heart. Cycling sometimes gets singled out, because you can do it day after day. (Nobody runs back-to-back marathons, but lots of cyclists put in hundreds of miles a week.) I’ve written about this supposed cardiac risk here. The question for your sister-in-law is: if Tour de France type riders—despite making a living at this and being tough as nails—don’t tend to ride themselves to death, how could you? I mean, no offence, but if a recreational cyclist were actually putting himself or herself at risk for cardiac arrest, the pros would be dropping like flies. And would humans actually evolve to have the capability of working themselves to death? Statistically, the greater risk is when a middle-aged person who doesn’t exercise at all suddenly does something really rigorous. When I lived in Colorado we’d hear every year about some guy having a fatal heart attack while shoveling the snow from his driveway.

As for osteoporosis, it is true that very fit people, because they carry less weight on their skeletons, are somewhat more prone to it. Cyclists in particular can be at greater risk because it’s a low-impact sport, lacking the thumping-along of running that can help maintain bone density. Another issue is that you can sweat a ton during a really long ride, which deprives your body of calcium. So yeah, there’s something to this. But obesity is a far more common ailment among the middle-aged, so it’s not like cycling is unhealthy. Just add in some weight training to your regimen, and make sure your diet has plenty of calcium. Also, I once did a quick Google search on “is beer good for bone density” and apparently beer has boron in it, which is good for your bones. I’m not going to research this any deeper because I have the answer I want, and now you do, too.

Dear MAMIL,

What is it with the modern cycling sunglasses? They are so goofy looking! Have all you MAMILs (and MAVISes) lost your minds? Why not a tasteful pair of Ray-Bans or Maui Jims?

Julie D, Miami, FL

Dear Julie,

I agree. It’s hard not to find fault when you compare modern cycling sunglasses to classic styles like the Ray-Bans.

The problem is, as much as we’d like to blame the designers for deliberately making their product “edgy” (i.e., dorky), to some degree this actually form following function. I’m not in love with the looks of my own cycling shades, but they really do well at not letting light leak in from the sides, not fogging up, and being easy to stash in my helmet vents so I don’t drip sweat all over them during a long climb. A couple of times I’ve forgotten to put in my contact lenses before heading out for a ride, and instead of clomping through the house in my cleats I’ve just put on my prescription Ray-Bans, and I’ll tell you, they don’t work nearly as well. So maybe this is a matter of MAMILs choosing to feel marvelous vs. look marvelous.

Dear M. Hamill,

Can you put to rest the rumor that your car accident was a suicide attempt based on your humiliation over having starred in the “Star Wars Holiday Special” on CBS, a program so awful one critic suggested it could have been “written and directed by a sentient bag of cocaine”? I’m sure it was just an accident. And I know that TV special wasn’t your fault either.

Irving M, Irvine, CA

Dear Irving,

I think you’ve got the wrong columnist—I’m a MAMIL, not Mark Hamill. That being said, a quick Wikipedia investigation shows that the car accident happened before the TV special, and this article points out that during filming of the special he was still recovering from the facial injuries sustained in the crash, “under a thick coat of make-up and on heavy painkillers.” (Part of me hates to veer so far off my column's topic, but I don’t like the idea of you carrying around such a blatantly false misconception.)

Dear MAMIL,

Someone wrote in before about whether the real point of Lycra, for men, is showing off their junk. Your answer was totally unsatisfactory—you were clearly prevaricating. What’s the real story? Why can’t you admit feeling sexy is part of biking’s allure?

Kim G, New York City

Dear Kim,

I assure you, MAMILs and even their younger counterparts have no exhibitionist tendencies. In fact, I have seen widespread evidence of teenagers being as modest as possible. When I was growing up in the cycling mecca of Boulder, Colorado, a fad started among those teenagers lucky enough to stand on the podium after a race: they would put on regular shorts (Ocean Pacific brand, usually) over their cycling shorts, for modesty’s sake. After all, to be on the podium is to be right in the public eye. I myself partook of this tradition, but with my own spin: I would roll up the cycling shorts under the regular shorts, to be less nerdy, to buck (part of) the trend, and because I was actually trying to prevent that ridiculous tan line cyclists get. Here I am on the second place tier rocking that look.

I had some influence at that point, but not enough to start a new tradition, as you can see above with the race winner, Pete, sticking with the previous tradition. But later that summer, in the Red Zinger Mini Classic, he’d adopted my rolled-up look and—given his dominance of that 9-day event—had driven 100% adoption in the new style across the podium by the end. You’ll have to take my word for it that he and the second place rider, David, were still wearing their cycling shorts in the photo below. (I didn’t have a second pair of shorts handy this time as I’d ridden to the race, which goes to prove how unnecessary this tradition even was.)

The double-short tradition persisted until the bike clothing industry wised up and started extending the padding in cycling shorts in the name of modesty. Fortunately, this evolution was complete before I hit puberty. ;^)

Dear MAMIL,

What’s the deal with power meters and Strava? Why do we even use these? Sometimes I wonder if I’m just trying to make myself feel bad by scientifically tracking and documenting the decline in my strength. I know you can’t answer for me in particular, and I wish I could, but I can’t other than to say I’m a blind follower of trends. So: why this trend?

Larry M, Atlanta, GA

Dear Larry,

I think I can take a stab at this. Starting with Strava, surely it succeeds for the central reason social media in general does: repeated doses of dopamine through the social traffic of the platform—kudos, comments, etc. There’s also the gamification of it: the KOMs, the PRs, etc. I’m not on Strava myself, but a friend tells me it has age-group-specific leaderboards to encourage ageing athletes.

As far as power meters, to some degree it’s just a cool new toy which fits in naturally with all the tech that cyclists enjoy. Beyond that, I find that—since I’m pretty new to having a power meter—I appreciate how it actually helps me feel better about certain stretches I ride. There’s a particular part of Wildcat Canyon Road that always made me feel weak and worthless because it looks like a fairly steep downhill but actually isn’t; I always felt like I should have been able to go faster through it. Now I see that, though my speed is barely over 20 mph, I’m putting out close to 400 watts, which ain’t too shabby.

The other thing to bear in mind is that those of us who are middle-aged now didn’t have power meters in our prime because they hadn’t been invented yet. So instead of comparing my time up South Park Drive to what I’d done in my 20s or 30s, I’m comparing my power output on it to what I did just last winter. Not such a comedown!

Dear MAMIL,

At the coffee shop this past weekend I overhead a couple of MAMILs talking about “luft.” Apparently it’s to do with cycling caps. I’ve been at this sport for a couple decades but never heard this term before. Care to enlighten me?

Sarah B, Boulder, CO

Dear Sarah,

“Luft” refers to how a cyclist wears his or her cycling cap. It should be worn high on the head, not pulled down tight; the higher up and puffier it is, the more luft it has. Below you can see Miguel Indurain getting it right, and your humble columnist getting it wrong (due to youth and ignorance, I must point out).

Not long after the above photo of me was taken, my brother Geoff schooled me about the proper way to wear a cycling cap. He did not use the term “luft” but he got the point across, and I learned my lesson. To this day I always employ plenty of luft.

Dear MAMIL,

How do you veteran cyclists tolerate having practically no body fat, particularly on your butts? How do you survive and sit comfortably? I’m a regular guy and my butt hurts after pretty much every ride.

H.Z., Princeton, NJ

Dear H,

First off, not all MAMILs have low body fat … only the former racers who somehow tamed their appetites in retirement. It’s the huskier MAMILs that earn us the reputation for being the wrong people to wear Lycra. But even those of us on the skinny side are just fine, because the padding is in the saddle itself, and the shell of the saddle, made either of plastic or carbon fiber, is designed to flex in just the right way. The saddles may look barbaric and torturous because they’re so narrow, but really it’s just your “sit bones” that need to be supported. If there’s pain involved it’s either due to chafing, or the saddle being set too high, or perhaps the rider putting too much weight on his butt and not enough on the pedals. Invest in a nicer saddle and you’ll probably be a lot happier.

I say all this because even at the peak of my fitness I really suffered when I tried too hard a saddle. The modern ones seem to be a step forward. Some even have a big valley down the middle, which is supposed to spare your nether region, though I can’t tell any difference. Such saddles do provide a nice way to stash your sunglasses, though.

Dear MAMIL,

I’m not a biker and have resigned myself to witnessing it (and being baffled) as a bystander. And I’ve always wondered this: why don’t biking gloves have fingers?

Julie D, Santa Fe, NM

Dear Julie,

There are lots of official reasons. Many a cyclist would tell you the gloves are mainly for crash protection, to keep your palms from getting scraped up, without any need to protect the fingers since they tend to curl inward. Or you might hear that the gloves are to pad your hands but the fingers don’t bear any weight, and/or the gloves are fingerless so they’ll be cooler. But I’m going to give you the truth. The number one reason for cycling gloves is that soft fabric, almost like terrycloth, on the back of the glove, between the base of the thumb and the wrist, which is used for wiping the snot from your nose. Other than that, most cyclists wouldn’t wear gloves at all. And cycling gloves are fingerless to facilitate nose picking. I know this is gross but that’s just the way this sport is.

A MAMIL is a syndicated journalist whose advice column, “Ask a MAMIL,” appears in over 0 blogs worldwide.

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From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XV

Introduction

This is the fifteenth installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I 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, and Volume XIV is here. (The different volumes have nothing to do with one another and can be read in numerical order, alphabetical order, in order of importance, or by court order.)

What are albertnet bits & bobs? They’re brief passages from letters, emails, essays, shopping lists, or other combinations of letters and words that I saw fit to type at some point. Read these silently to yourself while pointlessly mouthing the words, or read them aloud to your child or pet, or read them at top volume on a city bus. Or do all three! Mix-n-match!

[The below photo has nothing to do with this post, but hey ... happy Halloween!]

August 3, 2006

I have my PC media player set up to cycle through all my music, so I get everything from alternative rock to classical to rap. Right now I’m hearing a blast from the past: “Hunted Child” by the L.A. rapper Ice-T. My roommate C—, aka Dithers, used to sing along, “I’m the honey child!” I for my part liked to sing, “Death row . . . water buffalo.” [The real lyric was “what a brutha know.] Years later, at the bike shop in Berkeley, I continued in that vein, and for a brief time had the nickname “Water Buffalo.”

August 23, 2006

There used to be a sign on the Muni [i.e., local mass transit system] buses that read, “There is no limit to the number of seeing-eye dogs on Muni.” I always wanted to nudge a fellow passenger, glance toward the sign, and say, “No kidding—this bus is teeming with them!” Later the Muni folks changed it to “Any number of seeing-eye dogs are allowed on Muni, free and un-muzzled.” Scarcely better, but did it have to be so wordy? Why not just “Seeing-eye dogs are allowed on Muni,” or, because it’s really the point, “Only seeing-eye dogs are allowed on Muni”? Or perhaps best of all, how about, “If you can read this, get your dog off the bus”?

August 31, 2006

I finally got some Tour de France coverage on tape. It’s pretty cool. They show some dudes’ heart rates in real time! The commentators talked to Floyd Landis’s coach during stage 17, when Floyd made up all that time and put himself in striking range of the overall win. They were talking about stage 16, when Floyd cracked and lost like eight minutes on the last climb. He uses this Power Tap mech in the rear hub that tells him his power output and can be uploaded to the PC after the race. His coach said that during that ill-fated last climb on stage 16, Floyd was putting out 260 watts, which was quite low for him. Well, it so happens that it’s almost exactly what I averaged on the first two passes of La Marmotte this year! (I did 262 watts on the Col du Glandon and 264 on the Col du Télégraphe.) If you don’t factor in rider weight, you could conclude that I could hang with Floyd on his worst day! (Of course, rider weight is everything, and I’m sure my power-to-weight ratio isn’t even close to his.) Every night before bed both girls beg to watch some Tour de France footage. I limit them to five minutes (unless I get too caught up in the action and forget to curtail it).

September 8, 2006

I came across one of those questionnaires that help determine if you’re an alcoholic. Question five was, “Do you suffer from regular alcohol related accidents?” My completely honest and sincere answer is, “Not unless you count peeing on the rim.”

October 18, 2006

I’m so sorry to hear you got dragged to Kentucky Fried Chicken. I hate that “food.” E— and I went to KFC one cold, rainy day in Michigan during our cross-country bike tour, and immediately regretted it, from the first greasy bite onward. Which is weird. I mean, you’d think just about anything would taste good when you’re tired, cold, wet, and lost. I wonder if the ill-fated Donner party could have enjoyed KFC, right there at the end when they’d already eaten their boots and everything. Probably not. Man that stuff is gross.

November 11, 2006

I’m so frustrated with my work PC. The IT folks have locked down the browser to make sure the online experience is as annoying as possible. Every time a website runs a script (which means about half a dozen times per page) a window pops up saying, “Oh NO! Rush the children down to the cellar, put your tray table in the upright locked position, tuck and roll, Simon says cover your head! This website is running a SCRIPT! It’s possible that something TERRIBLE could happen! Do you really want to run this script, or should you just power off your PC and go home?” It’s systematically training you to automatically click “YES” to any dialog box that pops up, guaranteeing that if you ever got a useful dialog with a serious choice, you’d fail to recognize it. Somehow this makes the security people, who are evidently running the company, feel a bit better. Sadists. And whenever you click on a hyperlink or type in information and submit it, you get another dialog box: “You could not possibly have realized this, being an ignorant type with no concept of computer networks (the opposite extreme of us security types), but you are about to send information over the INTERNET! Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Don’t you know that OTHER PEOPLE could SEE this information? People you’ve never met, strangers, some of them psychotics, or the kind of people who don’t even put the toilet seat down? Are you SURE you want to do this? Wouldn’t it be better to go back to the IBM PC and DOS 3.1 and use WordStar? Are you really ready for this Brave New World that has such people in it? Is it really worth it?”

November 13, 2006

Not to worry, DSL [digital subscriber line, an early Internet broadband product] is pretty straightforward to have installed. After you place your order, a guy shows up at your house reeking of cigarette smoke. He might work for your actual provider, or not; he might actually work for the competitor of your actual provider, in which case another guy will come weeks later who will work for your provider, or at least a subcontractor of your provider whom you’ve never heard of. Each guy will come into the house, look in your crawl space, scratch himself a bit, then leave without appearing to have done anything. I guess one guy has one task and another guy who comes later has another task, but it never appears that anybody actually does anything. The first time through I expected to see the telco guy shimmy up the telephone pole across the street, but he must have done that in Ninja clothing the night before.

An any case it really is easy for the consumer, whose entire role is to keep an eye on the telco guy and make sure he’s not casing the house for valuables (see “Ninja clothing” comment above). Sometime before or after the telco guy’s visit, or between the telco guys’ visits, a box comes in the mail containing an install CD and a really cheap looking DSL modem. You follow some illustrated instructions and you plug a bunch of stuff in. Sometimes the DSL is provisioned on your existing phone line, so you have to put these weird filters on all your phone jacks, even ones with no phone plugged into them (if you believe the instructions, which I don’t). This is still pretty straightforward unless you’re also sharing those phone lines with your streaming digital audio system, in which case you have to draw a network diagram, scratch your head a lot, pay extra for a static IP address, and configure that. My current DSL, even though it’s a separate line from my voice line, came with a lot of filters anyway, with specific instructions to do nothing with them except save them in case you decide to switch to Voice Over IP (VOIP). So every so often I have to stop my wife from throwing out the filters, but that’s pretty easy.

I’ve had three different DSL providers, and only the first installation was difficult. My router was configured wrong and it didn’t do a darn thing. I was very distraught until I phoned a colleague and he helped me suss out the problem. The guy who installed it refused to help, and I had no recourse because I had no idea what company he even worked for, nor what he was even doing in my house.

November 29, 2006

At long last, per your previous inquiry, I’ve found a photo of the post-race meal served by the Marmotte race organizers. That shredded white stuff you see in the picture is raw jicama, I think. (Tasting it didn’t help with identification because it tasted like absolutely nothing, except aluminum, which everything tasted like, due to the physical abuse I’d just put my body through.) The dry, lifeless baguette must have been imported from the U.S. (from the Safeway deli, to be precise). I didn’t even know you could get a bad baguette in France. Maybe they have special crappy ones for the Americans. I’d really like to know why the race promoters thought anybody would be excited about this plate. (Full disclosure: there was also a second plate, of mealy penne with a bland tomato sauce, that didn’t warrant a photo. It was nominally edible.)

November 30, 2006

To be honest, I generally take a head-in-the-sand approach to the woes of ageing. I’m aware of a great many ways in which the body begins to wear out (though certainly not even a fraction of the total, nor of the myriad details of such), and I’m aware of many (but certainly not all, nor even most) of the ways in which a healthy lifestyle can delay the inevitable. That said, I’m also aware of the non-physical aspects of ageing: specifically, the emotional and psychological components, the most visible of which is the worry involved. As if the physical discomfort and reduced abilities weren’t bad enough, there’s the ever-growing concern that they’ll get worse, that they’re leading up to something dire. Toward the end of E—’s grandma’s life, I learned the hard way never to ask the open-ended question, “How are you?” This seemed to be an invitation for her to begin an endless litany of complaints and grave portents. I find that one of the great joys of (relative) youth is the illusion that it will last. To begin worrying now, to become vigilant of the pitfalls of this or that poor lifestyle choice, to start getting “Prevention” magazine, etc. would take much of the fun out of still being mostly intact. When I become a geezer one day and have to forego, with a sigh, that third piece of bacon, I want to at least have the pleasure of remembering my thirties, when the only memories I’ll have of limiting my bacon intake are considerations like “is it too hot to burn my fingers?” or “will that leave enough for E— and the kids?” Maybe one day I’ll wish I’d started the fiber and temperance a little earlier, but I’ll also, I’m sure, think back and say, “By god, I lived large as a young man, and I enjoyed it!”

As for whole-wheat pasta, I lump that into that category of foods you should either enjoy in their proper form or skip entirely. This substitutes-to-avoid group includes Hydrox cookies (imitation Oreos that taste bad), turkey bacon (inedible), soy cheese (culinary blasphemy), light beer (urine), grocery store pastries (a waste of fat and a carbuncle on the already ugly face of American food), margarine (proof that man is essentially evil), frozen yogurt (not yogurt, not ice cream, and not good), low-fat ice cream (the only noble justification for suicide I can think of), soy milk (tofu urine), and of course carob (the existence of which means the terrorists have already won). I mean, food ought to be pleasurable, life ought to be pleasurable, and if you’re not a total sloth and/or glutton you ought to be able to enjoy yourself somewhat. Those who do fake workouts (dangling by their wrists over a Stairmaster so their feet can paddle ineffectually around, while they read a frickin’ magazine, for crying out loud) can have their fake foods, and the rest of us—big strong creatures with appetites and a zest for living hard and well—can do whatever produces good results. That’s my take, anyway.

November 30, 2006

Congratulations on Baby M—! She is darling. I can’t tell which of you she looks like. In my experience babies seldom look like their parents, who are, after all, adults.

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Ready for Everest Challenge 2014?

Introduction

The one big race I do every year, the Everest Challenge Stage Race—two days of racing with 29,000 feet of vertical gain—is  coming right up.  In case that “29,000 feet” description doesn’t tell you much, consider that each stage of this race is like climbing a 5-mile staircase with 24,000 steps that would take you to the top of a 1,160-story building.  The first day is bad enough, but the second day is murder.  The third (and last) climb on the second day is, by itself, the equivalent of a two-mile staircase with 10,000 steps reaching the top of a 490-story building.

A friend asked recently, “Are you ready?”  It was not my wife who asked.  She knows better, having had quite enough of my blather.  It was my friend John who asked; he flew out from New York to race the EC two years ago.

I could have simply answered John directly, since he was reckless enough to ask and might actually be interested in the answer.  But why answer only him, when I could blog about it on albertnet, where other people, like my mom and a Russian hacker, might also see it?  Plus, maybe you’re considering racing the EC, or have already signed up, and are wondering more generally, what does it take to be ready for it? 

(Perhaps most importantly of all, this post will come in handy later, when the EC is over, as a retrospective building block for self-flagellation.)

My gut

My gut tells me that I’m ready.  But then, what does “ready” mean?  I’m very confident I can finish, since I have five times before.  Beyond this minimal sense, “ready” begs the question “Ready to do what?”  To a snowboarder, “ready” means “Ready to shred this gnar’!”  Which I’m totally ready to do, unless you’re talking about descending, where my modern chickenshit approach and undersized “big” chainring keep me decidedly within non-shredding, non-gnar territory.

So, what am I trying to do this year?  Well, after all the solid training I did last year, I ended up setting the wrong goal.  (I should have followed my own advice and not set a goal at all.)  I’d been so miserable on the final second-day climb in 2012, I vowed to take it easier in 2013 and pace myself better, especially on the first day.  (Day-to-day recovery is my Achilles heel.)  Did this strategy work?  Well, I certainly felt better on the second day’s last climb last year, but I was only 3 minutes 40 seconds faster ... and I was 20 minutes slower the first day.  So whatever suffering I saved myself then has been dwarfed by the year of self-loathing I’ve subsequently suffered.  (I’m reminded of a Steve Coogan line:  “Remember:  death is but a moment; cowardice is a lifetime of affliction.”)

So, this year, I’m going to try to man up and go as fast as I can, both days.  I know that sounds simplistic, but go try racing for more than twelve hours over two days and then decide if you still think this all-out business makes any sense at all.  So:  am I “ready” to go utterly destroy myself?  Well, can you ever be “ready” for that?  And conversely, aren’t we all born ready?

Of course, “my gut” doesn’t refer only to a subjective sense of readiness.  It also refers to whether or not I’m fat.  “Fat” in cycling parlance means having an abnormally low amount of body fat that is nonetheless still higher than what you wish you had.  I’m pleased to report that my fancy electrode-equipped scale tells me, as of a couple days ago, that I have 5.9% body fat. 

There’s some fine print, though:  you have to configure the scale with your height, age, and whether you’re an athlete or not.  This last setting probably tells the algorithm to simply lower the number so that the self-styled athlete doesn’t get pissed off and demand a refund on his crappy scale. 

The numbers

I keep a really detailed training diary.  I know, I know, I should use Strava for this, everybody keeps telling me that, but I don’t feel like sharing all my details with the world, especially if I’m updating the comments right after a workout and might write something untoward.  (The pro team Omega Pharma-Quick Step has a rule against riders tweeting within an hour of competition “when when emotions can be running high, and logic and reason can go out of the window.”)

Old-school Excel training diary in hand, I compared this year’s EC training to that of 2012.  (Of course how I prepared in 2013 is irrelevant, that race being an ugly smear on my memory.)  The below chart shows a comparison of the EC training period (beginning after vacation and ending in mid-September) for both years.  What I’ve discovered is that my preparation has been almost eerily similar:

Look at that.  Only ten seconds difference on Mount Diablo.  The biggest contrast is the number of Diablo ascents, but this year I did two fairly comparable rides in Colorado  (click here and here for details).  The difference in vertical gain might look like a lot, but actually, I gain that much vertical in just a couple of weekday (i.e., evening) rides.

Now, if I were a proper bike dork, I’d have a power meter and could look at all kinds of extraordinary numbers.  And in fact, it would help me during my rides as well.  I saw this in action last weekend when, on the second trip up Mount Diablo of the day, my pal Craig dropped my other pal, Ian, and me.  Craig just walked away from us (figuratively speaking).  At the summit, when Ian commented on this, Craig said humbly, “I was just watching my power meter and trying to keep it between 300 and 350 watts.”  To which Ian replied, “Yeah, I was just trying to keep mine between zero and 200.”

The requisite lugubrious day

I think it’s pretty unlikely that anybody training for a race like EC, and then racing it, will escape having a truly lugubrious day.  If he does, he’s either loafing too much (like I did last year) or is egregiously lubed like the pros.  (Yes of course I noticed that “egregiously lubed” is an anagram of “lugubrious leg guy,” except when it isn’t really, which is always.)

The trick, I think, is to get that lugubrious day out of the way during training so that you won’t have it during the race.  It’s like an insurance policy against having a particularly bad day when it really counts.  This almost worked in 2012 when I did a double-Diablo training ride fueled entirely by greasy dim sum, as chronicled here.  But I wasn’t quite miserable enough that day to call it lugubrious, which perhaps is why that last EC climb became my crowning lugubrious moment of the year.

What exactly do I mean by lugubrious?  Well, you know, just mournfully, pathetically, almost comically sad (though too sad for it to be funny).  This photo, I think, captures it pretty well.  Yes, I’m actually sobbing into my orange slices (after totally cratering in the 2003 La Marmotte).

So, you may be wondering, have I had my 2014 lugubrious moment?  Well, I almost got it out of the way really early, on January 1, when I raced the Mount San Bruno hill climb.  I went into the race angry, and was hoping to channel that anger into a great performance.  But as I wrote in my subsequent race report, “As I got dropped, I discovered that it’s possible to be bitter without being angry.  In fact, I just felt sad.”

Fortunately, that wasn’t my most miserable biking moment of 2014.  Nor was a frigid ride in the rain in February, though that experience was also awful enough to write about.  No, my worst ride of the year so far—which certainly deserves the lugubrious label—was my first double-Diablo after getting back from vacation (i.e., from missing almost three weeks of riding). 

Man, that ride was just awful.  I clocked abysmal times on the climbs, and couldn’t even keep up with my pals on the flat section back from the mountain.  (Because I’d taken so long on the climbs, Craig had to really motor to get home on time, and couldn’t wait up for me anymore.)  I finished up with over an hour of solo riding when I was barely able to turn the pedals.  By the end I was just totally shattered.  Everything hurt ... my legs, of course, and my butt, and also my forearms, my biceps, even my hands.  Even coasting hurt.  I came away from that ride feeling that the “good base mileage” rule is bogus—that I’d have been no worse off had I done no riding at all during the spring.  After that ride I was totally useless for five days straight.

(They say misery loves company, and I was duly cheered to learn that another pal on that ride fared even worse than I had.  Despite skipping the second trip up the mountain, he had to stop to lie down three times on the way home.)

Omen

All those stats I provided earlier may end up meaning nothing, as stats often do, so I should probably hedge my bet a bit with an omen.  I certainly have one to share, though whether it’s a good omen or not remains to be seen.

Last week I was hammering home through Tilden Park, at the tail end of an evening training ride, in the last moments of weak daylight before dusk set in, when I saw something swoop down from out of a tree.  Its trajectory was totally unlike that of a bird.  It came right at me and then swerved at the last second, but in the wrong direction so instead of going over my head, it went down and actually hit my thigh on its way past.  “What are you, blind?!” I thought, before realizing that yes, in fact, it was.  It had to have been a bat.  Moments after seeing it, I saw another creature of the same size and odd flight style, but this one was silhouetted against the horizon and was definitely a bat.  I got home and googled “bats Tilden park Berkeley,” and sure enough, bats can be found here.  Or they can find you.  (The other odd creature I’ve been seeing lately, but on Mount Diablo, is the tarantula.  I’ve seen three of them in the last month.)

So, what does it mean to be hit by a bat while riding?  Stay tuned to albertnet, because in early October I’ll give you the a full report on the 2014 Everest Challenge:  what I ate, and how badly I destroyed myself, and thus whether being hit by a bat is a good or bad omen.