Le dopage

With my recent month's focus on strength training, I've been spending time in GNC and the GNC aisle of Rite Aid looking at protein powders and other supplements. They have ferocious pictures of men looking like their limbs are being torn off with overblown claims in nonsensical language that calls up images of biting the heads off bunnies and pencil-like nerds. Words like "warrior," "beast," "unchained," and "monstrous" promise to turn you into a behemoth in language that seems better suited to a comic book than a supplement a few feet away from the Mylanta and diurrhetics that promise to fight kankles. They also have derivatives of words that I recognize from stories about doping cases in the news: "anabolic," "androgen," sterol," "testosterone"... I know that many of these products contain substances banned by cycling and triathlon (not by law), and it's tempting to try them out and see what they'd do to my power.

People walking into supplement shops are already vulnerable. They've come in with the intention of dropping $40 on pixie dust that will give them more of an advantage than food alone. And what makes one substance "bad" and another "okay" anyway? It's pretty arbitrary. I heard an interview once with some anti-doping specialist that said that caffeine was the single greatest legal performance-enhancing drug, and that if it weren't already so entrenched in our culture, it would have been banned long ago. And yet athletes have their careers terminated over traces of some chemical that's found is way into their blood through cold medicine. Sure, caffeine's natural and EPO isn't, but testosterone and HGH are natural and they're not allowed. Alcohol is way more dangerous than EPO (even back in the days when guys on EPO had to set their alarms for the middle of the night to do jumping jacks so that their blood didn't congeal in their veins), but alcohol is perfectly legal. If these drugs are banned, it's not necessarily because they're "bad" for you (or worse than any other pharmaceutical anyway).

The drugs aren't banned because they're unsafe, they're banned because they make you bigger/stronger/faster. Athletes spend hours every day busting their asses to get a leg up on the competition. They eat food that tastes like sand to optimize their power-to-weight ratio and muscle recovery. They take artificial supplements to pick up where food left off with electrolytes, protein, and even some vitamins. For a female athlete who takes iron supplements to fight exercise-related anemia, for example... how different is it physiologically to increase her red blood cell count with a few red blood cells from another person's veins? It's different ethically, but physiologically? When Greg LeMond was shot in a hunting accident, it was okay for him to get blood transfusions (he didn't). When Floyd Landis's hip was necrotic, it was okay for him to get cortisone (a steroid) shots. For those whose livelihood depends on it, the pressure to take that extra step to the other kind of enhancing supplements must be astronomical; especially in sports like cycling that have the perception (true or not) that everybody's already doing it.

So back to me standing in the aisle at GNC staring at the tubs of monster dust. I'm here because I want to burn fat, build muscle, improve explosive power, and I'm willing to pay for it. These bottles are saying they'll give me what I want. Running through my mind over and over with each outlandish claim on the side of a bottle is: I'd never even be tested!

I'm not doping. I have doubts as to whether this monster dust even works for meatheads who only care about bulk (not performance), let alone a spritely little cyclist like me who could care less about getting "shreaded." I'm not about to drop $58.99 on Andro Nitro X Triple Anabolic Formula and Penis Enhancement! If they had something proven to improve my performance though, like EPO, blood transfusions, or human growth hormone sitting there between the Incredible Hulk and Jillian Michaels pointing and smirking at me, I can't guarantee I wouldn't shell out the big bucks and take it home.

I like to ride my bike (and swim and run) because I really like putting the hurt into other people. I love the feeling when someone thinks, I can take her, and then I just blow them to pieces. I hate being on the other side of that story too, and it haunts me for months when I am. In short, I hate it when people think I can't do something. I have classic Little Man's syndrome, and I'm willing to go to great lengths to prove I have bigger balls than all y'all. If there were a button I could press, or a mantra I could say... or a magic pill I could take to never be shown up again... come on... yeah, I'd do it.

I've been watching a lot of old Tour DVDs during my trainer workouts lately. I personally believe that many–if not all–of the major players over the past decade are dirty. Do I care? Not really. Does it make me mad that Lancey Pants is probably a huge drug cheat and possibly a huge hypocrite for his professed dedication to anti-doping measures? Yes. Does it make it any less exciting when he schools Ullrich, Pantani, or Mayo (all of whom have their own sketchy pasts)? Not at all. Hey, all the EPO, HGH, anabolic steroids, and blood transfusions in the world would never make me a Lance Armstrong. Those guys are still fantastic athletes and genetic freaks. So what if there's a little Hollywood in there exaggerating their prowess and making a better show? It's not my career. If they want to gamble with their reputations in order to dazzle me a bit with a thrilling 200-km solo breakaway, I'm not going to object. Sure, I wish the sport were clean, but I also wish that all parking were free and plentiful, organic produce were cheap, and it were sunny every day. It ain't gonna happen and there's nothing I can do about it, so I'm better off not worrying about it to begin with and enjoying what I've got: lying, dirty cyclists who combine two of my favorite things–scandal and cycling!

And don't y'all act like you're better than me and that you would never consider doping. A couple of years ago I asked who would eat food that tasted like sand for an opportunity to be the best athlete in your sport. For those who placed athletic performance high on their list of priorities, many of them said that they would. The rest lied. Rumor has it that many triathletes with the means to do so choose to use performance-enhancing drugs in their quest for elite goals like Kona. With any reward that's tempting enough, a sport that requires so much single-minded dedication, and no consequences for cheating, can you really be surprised that it's happening? I'm not saying that everyone's doing it, but the fact that it's rare gives the athlete who chooses to cheat even more of an edge over his competition and makes doping even more attractive.

So yeah, if I were in the best shape of my life and in a position where I were just on the cusp of true greatness, and then my manager came up to me and said, "Here's a new drug that will enhance your performance 8%; enough to go from also-ran to sporting great. They won't be able to detect for another decade," I don't think I'd hesitate for long before dropping trou for the needle.

Allez, allez, allez!

It's that time of the year again. While I should be training like crazy for Disney right now, I've conveniently put up a blinder in my mind around that topic (marathon? what marathon? ...and a half?! I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about). Instead I'm spending all my mental energy planning for next summer when I'm going to be a cycling monster. I love planning. In many ways I like it better than the actual training and racing itself. I could (and have) sit there for hours planning out my training, mapping out the minutia down to the last detail, and getting ready for anything. I feel like the planning itself will make me faster. Like simply the act of writing down fast interval times will somehow make them attainable. It makes me feel excited. It makes me feel safe with all the workouts in their tiny little boxes on a calendar or excel sheet.

Often half the plan gets thrown out the window, but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. Just the act of thinking it through the first time will help me come up with an even BETTER plan next time. I realize what parts were unrealistic and which parts were too easy, where I need more work and where my strengths really lie. I have a whole notebook devoted to evolving plans for plans for plans. I know, I know.

*** NERD ALERT ***

I have lots and lots of outings planned for 2009, ranging from 10-mile time trials to 400-mile weekend trips to Canada and back. But the most exciting one of all, and the one that requires the most planning is my trip to Europe. Shane, my brother from another mother, is going to be my date for my friend Emily's wedding in London on May 24. But as long as we're going to be in Europe, we might as well make the best of it. So after dropping some presentable clothes and bulky non-essentials in London, we are going to go across the channel and spend a few days in Paris, before setting out for Barcelona... on our BIKES!!!

And we're not going in a straight line either. No way, José... or pas de tout, Joseph! We may never get this chance again, and we're going to make the best of it, dammit! From Paris we're going to ride southeast to Lyon. From Lyon we'll continue southwest through the Alps along the Italian border over such climbs as l'Alpe d'Huez, until we hit Nice. From Nice we're going to take some flat days along the coast through Marseilles before turning back inland to hit the meat of the Pyrenees. We'll ride back northeast as far as Toulouse so that we can ride through Andorra and over the Port d'Envalira, the tallest peak in the Pyranees, before riding down into Spain and south to Barcelona. It works out to be about 1,400 miles in 14 days.


Shane is a planner. I am a planner. And ever since we committed to actually making this happen a couple of weeks ago, we've both set to work furiously planning and planning to our little hearts' content. Shane bought maps and books with titles like "France by bike", and I've been studying google maps of France locating every famous Tour de France climb I can. We both speak Spanish and English, but we're setting about learning French. Shane is taking a French 2 class at community college and I'm digging around on my shelves looking through old French books from high school and college to see if I can resurrect the few years of French I took. I'm re-reading all 1300 pages of Les Misérables (no better way to get acquainted with France than Victor Hugo). We've both downloaded and started listening to every Learn French podcast on iTunes. I've already gone to the bike shop and grilled them on the advantages of various bike and component combinations.

(Well-intending commenters: Unless you've done a similar trip, don't worry about giving advice. We've got enough advice from people who know from experience to cull through for the time being.)

Six months out we're trying to figure out all the details. Should we bring our crappy bikes or our racing bikes? Panniers or backpacks? Where will we get food and water? (Shane wanted to bring iodide pills, but I pointed out that we were going to France, not India, and we surely would never go more than an hour without seeing a bar of some kind). Hostels, or camping? (probably a mixture) How would we find camp grounds? Are sleeping bags too bulky? What clothes would we need? (or more specifically, what clothes WON'T we need?) How are we going to get our bike boxes around? (cardboard most likely) How are we going to get our bikes back to London? How much money will we need? (Lots) While I'm wishing we had a French-speaking third musketeer who had unlimited resources to follow us in a fully-stocked RV, Shane has already begun mentally packing and re-packing his panniers.

So without further adu, here's the porn. Day by day, here's the plan so far. Of course they'll most likely evolve over the next 5 months:

Day 1 - Paris to Auxerre - 116 miles

Day 2 - Auxerre to Chalon-sur-Saône - 108 miles

Day 3 - Chalon-sur-Saône to Lyon - 83 miles

Day 4 - Lyon to Grenoble - 80 miles (into the Alps now)

Day 5 - Grenoble to Embrun - 118 miles (including l'Alpe d'Huez and Mt. Dauphin!!!)

Day 6 - Embrun to Nice - 130 miles (Last day in the Alps)

Day 7 - Nice to Toulon - 109 miles

Day 8 - Toulon to Marseille - 43 miles

Day 9 - Marseille to Montpellier - 119 miles

Day 10 - Montpellier to Castres - 112 miles (Into the Pyrenees now)

Day 11 - Castres to Toulouse - 42 miles

Day 12 - Toulouse to La Seu d'Urgell - 135 miles (The hardest day of the trip. We start in France, go through Andorra and over Port d'Envalira, the highest peak in the Pyrenees, and then down into Spain.)

Day 13 - La Seu d'Urgell to Montseny - 94 miles

Day 14 - Montseny to Barcelona - 65 miles

More on Tour de France asses: Don't Take it from Me...

I’ve got a couple of posts cooking, but in the meantime I had to share this excerpt with you. I’m reading Lance Armstrong’s War by Daniel Coyle right now. I’m really enjoying it, because, unlike other Lance Armstrong bios, it is about the bike. There is little mention of cancer, or hope, or any of that cheezy crap that surrounds popular portrayals of Lance Armstrong. What I like most about it is that Coyle is a really good writer, and does a really good job of portraying the people he describes as interesting, 3-dimensional, multi-faceted characters. He doesn’t go out of his way to paint Lance as a saint, nor does he glaze over some of his dubious connections with known drug cheats. But when I came across this passage about Tour de France asses, I just had to share it with all y’all. Read it quick, before I get busted for copyright infringement. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did:

Watch this clip to see the famous butts mentioned in the passage.

But first, let me make sure that it’s properly cited, so hopefully I don’t get in any copyright trouble. The following passage is taken from Lance Armstrong’s War by Daniel Coyle, copyright 2005 Harper Collins Publishers. Excerpt taken from Chapter 7, "The Q Factor", pages 66-69.

Today, however, was a day whose importance no one could deny. It was March 3, the first significant gathering of Tour contenders at the Tour of Murcia, a weeklong stage race in eastern Spain. Armstrong, Ullrich, and Mayo had come to these sun-bleached plains to begin their seasons in earnest. This morning they were taking the first steps towards Paris by engaging in the age-old and indispensable early-season ritual of their profession: the belly pinch and the ass check.

The belly pinch usually comes first, and it is often employed under the guise of a handshake delivered by a rival, a teammate, or a coach. The purpose is to measure body fat. The preferred technique is to smile broadly–hey there, you old so-and-so–grasp their target’s hand, and tug them forward in a teasing manner, twisting their bodies slightly to grant access to their unprotected midsection, on the side just above the waistline. The French are particularly known for their vigorousness of technique; on encountering Gallic teams, several American cyclists reported finding their midsections covered in red marks, as if they’d been attacked by a pack of lobsters.

The ass check is a more unobtrusive art. It is practiced from a distance, and requires not only a keen eye, but also experience. An ass, properly examined, is one of the best available calibrations of potential. Ass checking is not a pastime, it is part of the race, as sure a measure of a rival’s ability as timing a baseball pitcher’s warm-up with a radar gun. When most riders reach top form, their asses become small and vaguely feminine, as if grafted from a disciplined teenage gymnast.

“It’s not written down, but it may as well be,” says former Postal rider and OLN commentator Frankie Andreu. After a while, you get everybody memorized, what’s big for them, what’s small for them, what they look like when they’re going to tear it up.”

“First, you have to know the guy. You have to know the ass,” Bruyneel says. “After you know it, it tells as much as [powermeter] numbers.”

With the possible exception of supermodels, is there a more body-discerning group on the planet than professional bike racers? Their vocabulary has as many words for “fat” as Eskimos have for “snow”: puppy fat, chicken skin, baby fat, cheese, despite the fact that none of them is remotely fat. In fact, 10 percent of men and 30 percent of women cyclists are estimated to suffer from eating disorders, according to Dr. Arnaud Megret of the French Cycling Federation.

But the obsession is bent towards strategic purpose, because within the society of riders, fat is not fat, nor is an ass merely an ass–it is time. It’s a simple idea: the more you weigh, the slower you go uphill. An extra ounce here or there sounds meaningless, but it can make a huge difference, especially on a long climb. Of course, trainers like Ferrari have figured it out: each kilogram (2.2 pounds) adds about 1.25 percent to a rider’s time on a climb. On a typical eight-mile climb, that works out to just over a second per additional ounce. [my italics added for emphasis]

“Losing weight is the single most important thing you can do,” Armstrong says. “You have to train. You have to be strong, of course. But if you’re too heavy, it’s all over.”

At this particular moment in eastern Spain, the peloton was pinching and eyeing one another with carefully distinguished abandon. They were gathered on the street in loose circles by nationality, clutching plastic cups of espresso, eyes quick behind sunglasses. There, pixielike, stood Damiano Cunego, the promising twenty-tow-year-old. There was Spanish phenom Alejandro Valverde, who’d finished third in the 2003 Vuelta a España and had been widely consecrated as a future Tour winner. There was Eric Zabel, the elegant German veteran. There, skinny-assed and relaxed, stood Iban Mayo chatting in indecipherable Basque. Armstrong was nowhere to be seen–according to custom, he’d signed in early and retreated to the team bus, to avoid the crowd. But what of the ass everybody wanted to see? What of Ullrich? The clock ticked forward. Five minutes to go before the start. Four minutes. The crowd, which included a sizable contingent of Germany’s sporting press, shifted anxiously.

With two minutes to go before the start, a T-Mobile sedan pulled up, the door swung open, and out stepped Der Jan himself, striding purposefully toward the stage in his pink racing kit, hat pulled low.

The crowd pressed forward, craning its collective neck. It saw the slightly rounded face, the giant Duran Duran sunglasses, the hoop earring, the muscular thighs heaving beneath black Lycra, the gently amused smile. It was all there, along with–yes–a big ass. Not the biggest anyone had ever seen, no, that would have to be 2000, when he showed up twenty-five pounds overweight. No, the 2004 vintage was looking decidedly mid-range. Not huge. but not small, either: Depending on how you looked at it, he was either a little bit fat, or a little bit more muscular.

Then, as their eyes roved eagerly over the rest of his body, the onlookers saw something else. Ullrich appeared to be walking stiffly, his abdomen unnaturally rigid beneath an arch of rib. It was a subtle adjustment, which would not have garnered any attention, except for the fact that dozens of eyes were staring at that precise spot, a spot that, as he strode to sign in, revealed the truth: Ullrich was holding his belly in. Not just a little, either. He was hoovering that baby, sucking his bellybutton spineward, expanding his upper chest in the ageless, hopeless Charles Atlas-wannabe manner of suburban dads at the beach. Reporters scribbled and photographers fumbled for zoom lenses as the old Ullrich equation began to crystalize: Ass plus belly equaled Jan was big again.

In the days afterward, Ullrich and his cortege would make considerable efforts to some lengths to enlighten the media on the subtle yet vital distinction between being big and being powerful. The training he had done had added some muscle, yes. But not fat. This subtlety was apparently lost on the marketing department for team sponsor Giant bicycles, which postponed a planned photo shoot until such time as its star could look a little less, well, fat...

Wait, let's watch some more Tour de France asses,
just for fun (I sing the song they sample at the end to
myself sometimes on hard rides to get myself pumped–
I know, I'm such a dork!)...