Bombing Out

I remember back to one of the first meetings I had with Team in Training. Dwight was teaching us a lesson that diet was really important, with an anecdote on how bad he felt on a ride after he had Buffalo wings and beer the night before.

Prior to this past weekend, the biggest diet mistake I had made was getting my dinner at Johnny Rockets the night before a big ride. French fries are not carbo-loading, they are just a bad idea.

Now I, like Dwight, can attest firsthand that beer and wings do not marry well with riding. Let’s first disclose that I don’t have much of a tolerance for alcohol in general. Now add to that equation that, for a variety of reasons good and bad, my head had not hit the pillow before 2am for most of last week.

Help Eric raise money for Leukemia, click here http://www.active.com/donate/tntnonj/tntnonjEFlemin1

And then came Friday – my brother Ryan and his now fiancé and fellow TNTer Eve were celebrating their impending nuptials at a watering hole near Ryan’s work called Lansdowne on the far west side (43rd and 11th Av). They had rallied their friends and several members of my family came along for the ride.

Now, let’s get right down to it: When some one offers you an “Irish Car Bomb”, you politely decline and walk away - run if necessary. In fact, anything with the word “bomb” in it is probably something to be avoided entirely. Of course, this wisdom has come at price, which I will now share with you.

My guard was down on Friday night, as it had been a long week and I felt the need to cut loose a bit. That’s when my younger and more ably liver-ed cousin Dan pitched the idea of getting the beverage with the politically incorrect name, saying these concoctions were delicious. And as I was in a raucous mood after a long week, I sidled up to the bar to go “bombing” with Dan, his brother-in-law Chris and I think his sister Kristy came along, as well.

What goes into an Irish Car Bomb? It’s similar to a “Boilermaker”: Take a pint glass, fill it with halfway with Guinness. Then, get a shot glass, fill that up half Bailey’s and half Jameson (the whiskey, being thinner, surrounds the Bailey’s in a surreal womb of booze). Lastly, drop the shot into the pint glass and the combination will begin to fizz up to the top of the glass. While it fizzes up, you quickly tip this sweet brew of inebriation back. At this point, you will want to swallow, otherwise it ends up all over your shirt.

By no means, if you were foolish enough to get a first Car Bomb, go back later for a second. That is just asking for trouble. But in case, you made the mistake of getting two Car Bombs, what you really don’t want to do is wash away the taste of Bailey’s and Jameson with more Guinness and some spicy chicken wings. That’s just plain stupid.

But what is absolutely crucial, if you had two Car Bombs, several Guinness and wings on top of that, is to NOT stay out until nearly 2am, where you may or may not have had a third Car Bomb and more Guinness. Don’t do it. Just don’t. In fact, don’t even think it. Lesson learned, let’s move on.

Saturday morning came screaming at me out of nowhere.

As the sun poked around the edges of my bedroom curtains, it set off a bass drum in my head. No amount of Gatorade, ibuprofen or other ingestible palliatives was making it go away. But out of sheer habit I slowly got my kit together to trundle over to Basking Ridge for a spinning session. Shoes, more Gatorade, a towel, and a fresh shirt to change into once all the sweating was done.

Help Eric raise money for Leukemia, click here http://www.active.com/donate/tntnonj/tntnonjEFlemin1

Despite getting up at just past 7am, and working diligently to shake off Friday’s consequences, I was running 20 minutes late for a 10:30 class. I had quieted the drum’s deafening booms as best I could, but my legs were like I was walking on stilts. I was late, massively hung over and barely fit for walking, let alone enduring one of Hilarie’s endurance of pain spinning classes. So, I swung around, and headed home to nurse my self-inflicted wounds.

Sunday was another story. It was a day of redemption.

Eve was gracious enough to hold a spin class in Jersey City, my hometown, and extended her kindness further by picking me up. That meant I didn’t have to drive nearly an hour to sit on a bike that goes nowhere in a room with disco music pumping into my ears. All I had to do was get dressed.

I was joined by Dawn and the three of us rallied for 60 minutes in an all but empty New York Sports Club. Eve even threw in some XTC and Alphaville into her music mix as a throwback to my youth. I never was into either band, but it still was an exceptionally thoughtful gesture on her part.

When we were through spinning, sweat cascaded off my brow, my shirt was drenched and my legs were shaky. I felt like I had been Car Bombed all over again.

Sun 'n' Fun in February

You’ll be chagrined to hear that very little went wrong on my 20-mile ride this past Saturday. I nearly headed to yet another spin class, but claustrophobia won out over fear of becoming a lycra-dipped Fleming-cicle, and I had to get on a real bike that went some where, cold be damned.

I arrived at the right location at the Oak Street School parking lot, was on time, and wore all the right clothing to keep me comfortable in this wintry weather. Saturday’s weather was actually quite accommodating: the sun was out and shining, there was little wind and there was no sign that precipitation of any kind would throw a monkey wrench in the works.

To give you an idea of what one has to wear to stay warm, here’s what I was wearing from head to toe: a lyra head warmer, with a balaclava over that, a Pearl Izumi jacket, with a North Face fleece vest under that, then a lycra shirt under that, with a polypropylene thermal shirt under that. On my legs I kept it simple: long ski socks, with full length spandex tights over these winter weather tights that block the wind. Under all this was my biking shorts, and I had those neoprene booties over my shoes. I had fleece wrist turtles on my wrists with Fox winter biking gloves keeping my fingers warm.

There were about five of us out there, including the indefatigable Janice, Dwight and our ride leader Kevin. I had my usual attire, in addition to a balaclava, so only my eyes and nose were not shrouded in black. I looked like an overweight ninja in a wetsuit going for a bike ride. Kevin sported a shockingly neon green jacket that would have probably caught the eye of Stevie Wonder.

So off we went, for a quick 20 miles, which one can knock off in about an hour. Within about 15 minutes, I itched to get away from the pack and pick up some speed, which is usually 15 minutes longer than it usually takes. And off I went, coaxing Janice along for the ride. We were cruising along at about 18 mph, which can feel like light speed, until Dwight breezes past you without even breaking a sweat. Dwight is the ultimate reality check.

So, we tore ahead, thinking that we had left the group long ago. In reality, the rest of the group was probably never more than 75 yards behind us.

We got the ride done, and every body finished intact and feeling good. I didn’t even feel tired. That sunk in later that night. An interesting thing happens when riding – your hands get tired, not so much the fingers, but the muscles that pull the thumb into the fingers, like a crablike pinching motion.

I might not have noticed that my hands were worn out, had I not gone to a birthday party for one of Jessica’s friends where the utensil of choice was chopsticks. And that’s where those pinching muscles come in handy. Watching me fumble with the chopsticks, I looked like a penguin trying to work a pair of scissors. It was torture, because I was so hungry.

Spinned Out

(that's me in the back with the blue shirt, I have no idea what Janice was smiling about)

Well, true believers, as it seems my lot in life, I just can not show up anyplace on time. And Saturday, when I was driving to Hillsborough for a spin class fundraiser by our teammate Bill, was no exception. I was 20 minutes late.

Here’s my two reasons why I was yet again tardy: First, Janice told me it was about the same distance to drive from where we usually go riding in Basking Ridge (it’s another 20 minutes at least). And two, I could not for the life of me get the Garmin Street Pilot to recognize the address. It only can understand a street to have one name and in one format, and if you don’t put it in exactly as it likes, then you are completely SOOL. I had to go to 290 Route 206 South, AKA US Highway 206, AKA, Route 206, AKA US 206, AKA me sitting there in my kitchen cursing like a sailor at a little electronic headache maker. The trick was just to put in the number of the Route. Any other attempt ended in failure. That thing can be a life saver, and other times, like on Saturday, it’s about as useful as tits on a bullfrog.

So, once I had my well-endowed electronic amphibian properly programmed, off I went. An hour later, I pulled into BODY SHOP, a well-maintained full-service fitness place, complete with day care and free protein bars and drink powders with names like “Muscle SUPERBAR” and “Accelerade”. (I haven’t tried the bar yet, but Accelerade is gross.)

I looked around the place, saw the big purple TNT banner, but I could not find where the spinners were spinning. Then I spied it, a small unlit room, with the tell-tale whirring of spinning bicycles mixed with blasting music and an instructor barking out orders to the panting horde packed in like sardines. There must have been nearly 30 bikes crammed into this 15x15 cave. Some people were kind enough to shuffle around to make some room for me and this tall woman knew my name for some reason.

When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized it was Janice, with Jennifer to her left. And I got right down to spinning. Sit up, sit down, crank up the tension, crank it down, sit up again, faster, slower, and so on, and so on. What they didn’t have to tell you was to sweat like some one just dunked you in a river and breathe like you have a lung missing.

The first session wrapped up and Janice wanted to stick around for another class. As I had got there late and it had taken me an hour to get there, I was game. So, we went through another class, new music, new instructor, same sit up and down and pedal then slow down.

After round two, I caved in and had one of those GU gel energy paste things that taste like Duncan Hines icing, but are loaded with caffeine. Chocolate seems the only flavor that you can’t botch too badly.

Sugar fix in hand, Janice pleaded with Jennifer and I for yet another class. It was getting late, so we compromised on half a class. The problem was, when half the class was up, Jennifer had a change of heart (Janice worked us over with the passion of a seven-year old vying for the new fangled expensive toy for Christmas), and we ended doing a third class - In a row. And then every one in the class was bugging us to stick it out. And I was like, "Gee, fellas, as much as I like spending three hours in a dark, windowless closet with a dozen sweaty strangers with dance music pumping into my skull and an exercize nazi shouting at me..."

My legs had gone from shaky to downright wobbly now and I was beat and I needed to eat.

Mercifully, there were a number of places to eat just across the street. We ended up at Charlie Browns, a steakhouse chain that I had thought gone out of business a few decades ago. The burger was subpar, but the company more than made up for it.

If I can keep this sort of thing up, maybe I will be able to shed a few pounds during all this training. But I have to refrain from following every workout with a burger and fries, I think. But my paring down to a less pear-like shape is a dividend. The point is trying to pitch in to cure Leukemia, which killed my uncle Ed last year. Bill raised $2,000 last Saturday, and all for an excellent cause. Man, I have to put together a spin class.