doctornige
Well-Known Member
As weeks go, this is proving to be a tough one.
I have spent the last two or more months sacrificing myself at the altar of weight. Instead of choosing the usual route for a middle class man of means and buying a lighter bike, I have instead gone down the peasant's road of stopping eating. The results have been obvious to all who know me, but I have found a new friend in hunger. It begins long before waking - a nag that eventually causes me to stir and look forward to breakfast. At the appointed hour, rather than heading straight the for kitchen, I drag out the scales, set them to metric and assess the damage from the day before - watch removed, naked with nothing ingested and bone dry skin. 70.4 and 1.4 to go. Today will be different.
And so the routine begins. A bowl of fruit, a four mile walk and a morning's work punctuated all too briefly with a quick espresso. Lunch is a two mile hike away, rounded off with 25km on the velo. Dinner is at last a chance to fill my belly before the oblivion of sleep five hours later.
Aside from weekend transgressions, this is the routine that has taken me from a typically overweight man of forty to someone with vital cycling statistics that at least on paper surpass those of the now disgraced Lance Pharmstrong. 176cm, 69-70kg, but not quite on the plateau. Once more week will do it, then I can relax.
So you can imagine how I feel about being stuck in Switzerland and the Czech Republic for a week on a diet of restaurant food, and the ever present temptation of wine. I have a vague idea how to keep things under control here, but the invitations for midday 'Mumph, mumph!' and the boredom of long evenings on my own are difficult to bear.
I try to remind myself of what it takes to stay fit. I have pored over my weight charts on my iPad, I have even sat and read the whole of David Millar's autobiography (he is a thin gentleman). Yet the struggle remains, while the people of Basel whip noiselessly by on their bikes.
The bastards.
I'm onto Laurent Fignon now. Wish me luck.
I have spent the last two or more months sacrificing myself at the altar of weight. Instead of choosing the usual route for a middle class man of means and buying a lighter bike, I have instead gone down the peasant's road of stopping eating. The results have been obvious to all who know me, but I have found a new friend in hunger. It begins long before waking - a nag that eventually causes me to stir and look forward to breakfast. At the appointed hour, rather than heading straight the for kitchen, I drag out the scales, set them to metric and assess the damage from the day before - watch removed, naked with nothing ingested and bone dry skin. 70.4 and 1.4 to go. Today will be different.
And so the routine begins. A bowl of fruit, a four mile walk and a morning's work punctuated all too briefly with a quick espresso. Lunch is a two mile hike away, rounded off with 25km on the velo. Dinner is at last a chance to fill my belly before the oblivion of sleep five hours later.
Aside from weekend transgressions, this is the routine that has taken me from a typically overweight man of forty to someone with vital cycling statistics that at least on paper surpass those of the now disgraced Lance Pharmstrong. 176cm, 69-70kg, but not quite on the plateau. Once more week will do it, then I can relax.
So you can imagine how I feel about being stuck in Switzerland and the Czech Republic for a week on a diet of restaurant food, and the ever present temptation of wine. I have a vague idea how to keep things under control here, but the invitations for midday 'Mumph, mumph!' and the boredom of long evenings on my own are difficult to bear.
I try to remind myself of what it takes to stay fit. I have pored over my weight charts on my iPad, I have even sat and read the whole of David Millar's autobiography (he is a thin gentleman). Yet the struggle remains, while the people of Basel whip noiselessly by on their bikes.
The bastards.
I'm onto Laurent Fignon now. Wish me luck.
