Big & Fat Weight Class

Seeing how I am offically a fat fucker (*based on my relative misconception of how I should or should not look, my height vs my girth, food intake, caffine intake for the day, state of mind, lack of sleep or numerous other influences that may or may not affect me today based on my mental grounding), it looks as though it might be in my best interest to slide gently into a new cycling category - the Clydesdale Category.

I COULD work hard to get my weight down. Which WOULD mean limiting my daily caloric intake by eating watercrest, celery, skim milk, bran, and Canada's Food Guides recommended daily intake of fruits and vegetables. It WOULD also mean excercising on a regular and consistent basis. Which WOULD most definitely mean giving up The Thom Parsons(Bacon Egg & Cheese on a Boston Cream Donut)Project.

But I mean, do I really want to give up eating what I want to eat? Do I really want to give up lazing on the couch? Do I really want to have to try and fit into my cycling shorts, sit on a stationary bicycle in my basement for nearly three months doing various cycling workouts just so that I can look slightly slimmer, ride slightly faster, and place slightly higher than mediocre in a three person race where I inevitably come in third? Meh. It seems like an awful lot of work for very little pay off.



But this is apparently what I am SUPPOSED to do - is it not? Hasn't the cycling community, the racing community, my stalking fan club of interweb blog reading community, sponsorship community, at looking down their nose community expect this of me? Haven't I come to expect this of myself? I do it every year. And every year I cease to win any world titles, cease to set any records for fastest lap/most laps, cease to win any cups, cease to . . . .

. . . . wait, just realized that I am using the verb 'cease', meaning: come to an end . . . . . I never came to a beginning or ever even started to win or even won for that matter any of the above mentioned cups, races, laps, records or nothing. I couldn't even win a prize at the AntiRace and had to go on Scott's pitty generosity to get any kind of acknowledgement. I suck.

Now the question arises: will I again suck next season? And the answer is: most definitley - like the Leafs . . . lofty aspirations to begin the season, plans of a parade down Younge St. with the Stanley Cup, and at the drop of the puck - period one - game one of the season, the same answer. Suckiness.