I’ve not been very smart with my eating this winter.  I succumbed to the “well I could eat that when I was training/riding/etc.” line of rationalization time and again over the winter.  The obvious result?  I feel like a stuffed sausage.  I havn’t gained back all the weight I’d lost last season but enough that I no longer feel comfortable.

I could blame the numerous temptations between my last ride in November and this spring – the multi-day gorgefest that is Christmas, then New Year’s Eve, Valentine’s Day and finally Easter.  I could point the finger of blame at my Awesome Wife who has developed a wicked skill set in the kitchen that includes the ability to whip up a dozen chocolate-chip cookies in a matter of minutes or piles of pancakes, sausages and bacon on a Sunday morning.  I could pass the buck to my evil co-workers who insist on bringing in three dozen doughnuts every Thursday.

I could, but I won’t.  Nobody held me down and poured gravy down my throat.  Nobody held a weapon-shaped pastry to my head and forced me to eat it.  Nobody made me eat seconds.  And thirds.  It’s nobody’s fault.  I’m going to find nobody and kick their ass just as soon as I can un-wedge myself from this chair.  When did they start making chairs so narrow anyway?

The other day I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in years.  Eric and I appeared ever so momentarily in the Calgary-shot television show Viper (that lasted only slightly longer than our appearance) in the mid-90s.  We’d been hired to be background tough-guys in a bar fight scene and for generally prowling around on our motorcycles.  Eric was a power-lifter of considerable size, an imposing presence behind the counter at the motorcycle shop.  We affectionately nick-named him No-Neck which we only ever said out loud when out of his reach.  I on the other hand was trying hard to create that same presence with my long hair and long moustache and the large chip on my shoulder.  I can say with certainty that all it got me was attention from the wrong people.

At any rate, Eric was almost unrecognizable when I saw him again having lost upwards of 60 pounds from the last time I’d seen him.  I genuinely would not have recognized him if we hadn’t been standing in our old place of work.  The change was remarkable and inspiring.

Speaking of inspiration, there’s a wager about.  It is, as last year’s was, a gentlemen’s wager meaning only bragging rights and pride are on the line and ethical behaviour is assumed.  No giving your GPS to someone else to put miles on.  No driving it around in your car.  No hacking the data files.  Well, no hacking your own data files at any rate

The wager is simple: first rider to 1000km.  I suppose there are three wagers – 1000km, 1500km and 2000km.  Considering I managed just shy of 2000km all of last season (while still winning the last rider riding wager), this is a tall order.  It’s also serious motivation.  For Adam.

I noted earlier that Adam would ride to work with one foot missing (it’s just a flesh wound) if there was competition on the line, real or imagined.  What I should have done was bet that we could get Adam to ride in the snow, sleet and rain as I would have one that in the first 7 days.  I was convinced that with the snow on my car the other morning, even Adam wouldn’t have ridden.  Wrong.  Not only had he ridden while I was brushing heavy, wet snow from my car, he had the audacity to rub it in.  Beating Adam to 1000km is going to be a significant challenge.

The Cheater has all but stopped riding to work.  In fact I don’t think I’ve seen his bike there once this week (as opposed to my much more dedicated twice).  This is not to say he’s not riding however.  Alberto has been taking advantage of his wife-less, kid-less domestic situation and putting on 40 kilometers after work.  This will not do.  This will not do at all.  While Adam and I are busy filling our familial obligations, The Cheater is riding.  While this is clearly cheating, the Council of Gentlemen’s Wagers has determined that it is within the confines of our agreement and thus must be permitted.

There is hope for me yet however.  Chris H. you may remember has been blessed with a compact wind profile, thus enabling him to handily embarrass the rest of us with his jackrabbit speed.  He’s managed to log a massive three thousand meters this season.  I just might be able to fend him off if I can maintain my progress.

This leads me to the present conundrum.  Well, it is for me – it clearly wouldn’t be for Adam.  Depending on which electronic gadget one consults for weather information, tomorrow ranges anywhere from slightly wet but warm to down-right miserable with the threat of a double head-wind gusting to 33km/h.  It is with resignation that I set my cycling clothes in the bathroom and dig out my plastic pants.  I will ride tomorrow, in the rain, in a double-headwind, in my plastic pants.  Can you feel my enthusiasm?

Damn you Gentlemen’s Wager.