Alaskan Pack Fodder

The last week or so I've been riding a wave of feeling good about my fitness. The legs turned the pedals over so well that I often overshot my goals and ended up working too hard. I couldn't help it. These short bouts of fitness usually are separated by whatever illness the baby passes on to me as I wipe up whatever bodily fluid is leaking out of him at a given moment. That's part of being a dad, so I can't complain.   Last night I got on the bike much later than I should have, given that I had to wake up early for a workout that was planned to be a bit intense. I hadn't eaten much all day, and the stuff I didn't eat wasn't exactly nutrient-packed. Still, I hammered away and then shut it down early to try to conserve something for this morning.   I failed.   As soon as I started pedaling with any sort of intensity, the heart rate shot up and the lights went out. There was nothing in the legs. I could barely turn over the pedals and had to admit defeat

When professional cyclists refer to "marginal gains", it's usually seen by most jaded observers as another code word for doping.   When amateur cyclists refer to "marginal gains", it usually comes with a huge price tag whose overall contribution to performance doesn't begin to justify the added expense. However, it's shiny and/or carbon and it makes us feel faster, and that's all that really matters.   My own experience with marginal gains relates to my futile attempt to keep my weight under control from season to season. I shoot for only gaining a couple pounds, and I end up packing on far too much. Then I start trying to hack away at the congealed lard pile that is my mid-section, little by little, until the self-loathing is replaced mere self-dislike.   This year my usual strategy for weight loss isn't working as well as it has in the past, and I'm beginning to get desperate. It's getting so bad that I've caught myself linger