It’s mid-summer. The heat has dissolved my bar tape into such a gooey, disgusting mess that I’m anticipating the metamorphosis of my handlebar into some rare cycling insect….like Mauricio Soler. My helmet straps, once black, now have stalactites of salt. I’ve decided to forgo gloves altogether and rather duct tape a set of “Sham Wows” to my wrists. As my body and bike are melting due to the conditions so is my motivation.

Many riders have mid season goals that just don’t look as enticing as they did in December. Unfortunately I am one of them. I have already obligated to a series of races in the Midwest which will destroy mere mortals without proper preparation.

Let me introduce cycling’s customary torture device simply called, “the Trainer”. They come in a few different styles and masochists may subscribe to one or the other, but all versions will bring you anguish, torment and suffering.

Like a cruel acid trip, your mind will drift into the darkest parts of hell and as you return to consciousness you’re certain this arrangement was a scene from the trailer of SAW VI. Once you have completed your “interval session” and cleaned the vomit off your top tube your body will feel a bit unsteady; like you’d been given a shoddy lobotomy by Michal J. Fox (circa present day).

Come race day you should be laughing at everyone in the lineup. You’ve been through enough intensity that daily hallucinations are the norm and peyote seems like a weak artificial sweetener. It’s go time!

Just remember at this point you are borderline psychotic and the only antidote is two or three beers shared with your teammates after your race.  Do not shank anyone.