You are currently browsing the Fat Cyclist weblog archives for March, 2013.
There's also a cool story to go along with this photo. Read it here.
Such easy wishes to grant. Except they aren't. Not when you're currently obsessing at heretofore unheard-of levels in order to get your weight down from 183 to 158 pounds, in three months.
But my family had it easy, really. After all, while I haven't taken The Hammer out to a nice restaurant lately, I did fire up the grill and make burgers for the family — I even ate one myself (but without a bun).
Where I've really had to be outrageously obsessed is when I'm at work, where I am routinely sequestered in a conference room for eight solid hours at a time, four days in a row.
And since this has happened thrice in the past quarter — all while I've been trying to drop this weight — I've learned a few lessons.
Which I shall now share with you.
Just a couple weeks into my diet, I had my first weeklong meeting of the quarter. And these meetings really do go all day, in one conference room, for four straight days. These meetings are intense. They are packed with work that needs doing — to the extent that lunch is usually brought in.
They require a lot of thinking, and a lot of listening, and a lot of expressing of oneself.
They are quite often somewhat confrontational, which adds a moderator job to the person who leads these weeklong meetings (i.e., me).
But I figured I was up to the job. I'd order light off the menu, and would skip desserts. I would stay away from the snacks I had strategically placed all over the table for people to munch on at will.
I would, in short, be good.
And then, in the space of four days, I gained three pounds.
How did this happen? I rationalized.
Which I then followed with another handful. And then I went to the cashews, until they were gone, after which I went to the M&Ms. And in short, I was the very picture of a train wreck.
I made a resolution to be better the next day. But in fact I was worse. My willpower cracked before we even got to lunchtime, and by early afternoon I was eating with a vengeance.
It is not clear at whom this vengeance was aimed.
I cannot be trusted: My overarching insight was that when I am hungry and stressed and there is food around, I cannot be trusted to make a good food-related judgment call. I just can't. I will break down and start eating with abandon.
All decisions must be made early: If I can't be trusted to make good food decisions when I'm hungry and stressed, I have to make all my food choices ahead of time.
There can be no exceptions: The decisions I make are not subject to revision or adjustment or tweaking or anything else. They are absolute.
Working from these, I came up with a plan. I would purchase a stock of protein bars and protein shakes, and bring them with me to the meetings. I would have a certain allotment of these per day, and they would be all I would eat. No chips, no cookies, no pizza.
And it worked. I dropped from 163.6 to 160.8 during those four days.
However, I was working from home during this meeting. The real challenge would come at the weeklong meeting while I was traveling.
Since I would be out of town for this final meeting, I needed to get my stash of protein bars and drinks to the hotel ahead of time. So I just had them shipped there, to my attention. Easy.
To my surprise, everybody was very cool about it. Thinking back now, there's no reason anyone wouldn't be cool about it, but still.
So with my intentions and plan made public, I had turned the tables on this scenario. Instead of it being difficult to stay on my diet for a week while locked in a conference room, I had made it so it would have been difficult to not stay on my diet.
Except the one time everyone else took off for dinner and I stayed in the conference room, working late. During which I ate half a bag of chocolate-covered pecans.
Still, when I got back from my Sunday – Friday trip, I had dropped a full two pounds. Yes, that's right. I had lost weight while traveling.
I'd like to tell you a story today. While it's not a story that is quite over, it seems to be going well for the protagonist.
You see, after a pretty successful race season last summer, I stopped racing. And more or less stopped training, too. But I kept eating as if I were still going full tilt.
By January of this year, I was up to 183 pounds. I took this picture, which I am now showing to you, with apologies.
Then, I started a contest with Adam Schwarz, who had the terrific misfortune of being the same height and weight as me, as well as having a goal of losing the same amount of weight as I.
You can read the details of the contest here, but basically, we each have 'til 3/30 to reach 158 pounds — a 25-pound loss in 90 days. If one of us fails, he has to buy the other a pair of Assos shorts.
To keep ourselves accountable, we would tweet our weight loss progress daily (I have also kept track of my progress in the sidebar of my blog, as well as on Beeminder).
The scale rules your life. I am currently weighing myself every day. I do this because if I weigh myself only weekly, I am vigilant about my diet only when the next weigh-in approaches, and say to myself immediately after a weigh-in, "Well, now I have a little time to goof off before buckling down and getting serious about food again." When I weigh myself every day, I never get to say that.
If you don't want to weigh yourself, you absolutely must weigh yourself. Some days, I wake up thinking, "I just don't want to weigh myself today." On those days, it's absolutely critical that I weigh myself. Because if I don't want to weigh myself, it's because I know I've done something that is going to show up on the scale. Which is to say, I've never led an error-free day on my diet and then not wanted to weigh myself. When I have screwed up, diet-wise, however, I rarely want to see what the consequences look like, because I generally have a pretty good idea that they won't be good. And only by stepping on the scale and seeing the "effect" part of the whole cause-and-effect of cheating on your diet have I started to get better at not cheating. Or at least at not cheating as severely and often.
Scales are evil. Sometimes you're doing everything right and you still don't lose much weight. Or any weight. Or sometimes you even gain weight. This is because bathroom scales are evil, spiteful, hateful things that don't take your feelings into account at all. That said, I've found that scales don't hold a grudge forever. If I continue to hold my line, diet-wise, the scale will eventually — begrudgingly — yield up some positive results.
Your weight doesn't always tell you how well you're doing. No matter how hard you exercise, sometimes you don't lose weight. And I've found in fact that sometimes if you exercise hard enough, your weight will spike sharply upward for the next few days. This is because of inflammation and water retention after a hard workout, and it will slope off after a couple days, revealing how much you've actually lost while it looked like you were gaining.
Backsliding isn't worth it. I've discovered that when I abandon my diet for a day and eat whatever I want, it takes about four days for me to claw my way back to where I was before I lost control. That's a lot of time and effort spent on getting to where I was…instead of on moving forward.
Backsliding is occasionally totally worth it. Nobody's perfect. Once in a while I discombobulate and eat everything in the fridge, and then I go to the neighbor's house and eat everything in their fridge too. And then I apologize and give them some money and advise them to improve the security of their premises. But here's the thing: as I am eating, I know I'm screwing up and sabotaging myself, and I don't care. I just want to eat. No, "want" is the wrong word. When I lose my dieting willpower, I lose it entirely. I don't want to eat, I simply am eating. I must eat. There is nothing in the world but eating. Eventually I come back to my senses, and then assess the damage I have done, both to myself and to those around me ("Sorry I ate your hand").
If you ever meet an expert, you will find you are dieting wrong. A couple of days ago, I tweeted what I considered (and continue to consider) to be a self evident truth: "There's nothing quite as effective as a diet for making all your waking thoughts center around food." Immediately a number of Very Smart Experts on diet jumped in, telling me what a bad job I must be doing on my diet. But you know what? Those people don't know the way my mind works, they don't know the way I publicly hold my feet to the fire in order to keep myself honest, they don't know me. And they don't know you, either. Experts generally love to share their expertise. But that doesn't mean they are right.
You know what, though? That's all the small stuff. Here are the real things I've learned. The things I'm hoping I can use to actually keep most of this weight off.
Your diet probably works. My diet — lots of protein and fat via egg whites and avocados — is strange, but it works great for me. I don't get tired of it, I'm very healthy, and it's easy. But other diets would work, too. Really, any reasonably well-thought-out regimen would probably work…if you stick to it. It's when you start slacking on diets that you stop losing weight.
When your diet isn't working, there's a reason. Sometimes you're just going to plateau for a few days, sometimes your weight is going to spike because of inflammation, and sometimes your diet might stop working because you've stopped doing it right. This happened to me at one point during this diet. I had gone from occasionally putting yolks in my eggs to always putting yolks in my eggs. And more cheese. And I was snarfing a spoonful of peanut butter — which was supposed to be my safety net for when I was going to otherwise completely lose it — several times per day. Astonishingly (not), I was no longer losing weight. When I cut the yolks and peanut butter out — that is, when I started following the original rules of the diet — I started losing again.
But staying on your diet is easy — relatively — when you're at home. When you're traveling or stuck at a conference or a week-long meeting, it's not so easy.
Last week, though, I managed to drop two pounds in six days while traveling. Which is what I'll talk about in my next post.
The Hammer and I are almost ridiculously happy together. We love planning things out together. And talking with each other. And training together.
We even love going to races together.
But when we go to races, we're never racing against each other. Partially because that's just not what married couples do.
But what if we…you know…did?
I'm not saying we would ever go and actually just race against each other to see whom of us is faster. Because of marital harmony and stuff, as heretofore mentioned. But also because there aren't many races where it would be a legitimate competition.
Like in the race we did last weekend, for example. If I'd have run a half marathon, The Hammer would have beaten me by a huge margin. Similarly, in bike races, I'm a little faster than she — although her recent Leadville 100 finishing times are faster than all but four of my finishing times.
But what if we were to do a race where the bike portion and the run portion were balanced out, and maybe a randomizing third event (like maybe a swim?) neither of us is good at were thrown in?
And suppose, unlike when we last tried doing a long-distance triathalon, we were both really fit and fast?
And further suppose, unlike when we last tried doing a long-distance triathalon, we agreed that if and when The Hammer caught me on the run, she would just keep on going to see how much faster she is than I?
And even further suppose that unlike in a full Ironman, we were to do a half Ironman, thereby taking away the (some might say) out-of-proportion advantage given to cyclists?
Between The Hammer and me, who would win?
You must admit, it's an interesting thought experiment. You know, the kind of thought experiment a loving couple might discuss, just for fun. And perhaps it might even become the prevalent topic of conversation between that loving couple. And it's even conceivable that the loving couple might engage in quite spirited debate on this topic.
But, you know, it's not something we would actually do.
So, having had a number of spirited conversations with The Hammer, I took it upon myself to check and see if it was too late to register for the inaugural St. George Half Ironman (it used to be an Ironman but was generally acknowledged to be too difficult of a course, which makes both The Hammer and me feel kind of awesome that we both did it).
Not that I was going to register us for it if registration were still open. I was merely curious.
Imagine my relief to find it was sold out. "Oh well, that's that," I thought.
"Magic will be happening in less than an hour," replied Yuri. And he was right. Before I could come up with a plausible excuse, The Hammer and I were registered.
Suddenly, the hypothetical was real. The Hammer and I are racing in a Half Ironman.
Here's my (absolutely and completely impartial) analysis of what the day will bring.
The morning starts with a — and I just checked this to make sure of the distance — 1.2 mile swim. This is the part that both The Hammer and I dread the very most. Neither of us is a trained, strong swimmer.
That said, this leg of the race is incredibly strategic.
Of course, this race is timed by chip, so theoretically it doesn't matter who starts when.
In the past, there's been a reasonably good chance that I would catch The Hammer before the swim leg even finished; thanks to the miracle of a wetsuit and stronger arms I've been able to compensate for my total lack of form and haul myself through the water more quickly through the water.
But The Hammer's been in the pool several times per week this past winter, training using the much-acclaimedTotal Immersion swim method. She's fixed some important problems with her technique and I now fear that my brute force advantage has been nullified.
Meanwhile, for your information, I have not been in the pool even one single time. I should probably fix that.
The Hammer and I have identical bikes we'll be riding for this race: the Specialized Shiv. We both have been training using these bikes, and while neither of us could be called an expert on them, we've both gotten better.
Both The Hammer and I are good climbers. But — and I say this in a reasonable facsimile of humility — I am a better climber.
The central question in the "Fatty Vs The Hammer" race is, "how much time will Fatty lose to The Hammer in the run?" The easy answer is, "A lot," but that's not very specific.
The Hammer is in fantastic running condition right now — she's light and she's training for an upcoming marathon and she just ran a personal best for the course in last week's half-marathon.
She is going to crush me on this leg. As in, it's entirely possible she'll be two minutes per mile faster than I am. And maybe more if I am reduced to walking the climbs, which is likely.
Which means that even if I manage to put half an hour on The Hammer in the rest of the race, she could beat me at the line.
And the thing is, this is an out-and-back course, so at some point we'll see each other and then she'll know exactly what the gap between us is…and what it will take to close that gap.
I don't know if you're aware of this, but The Hammer is somewhat competitive. If at the point she sees me there's even a remote chance that she could catch me, she will catch me.
And then she will blow me a kiss and keep on going.
Personally, I think there's a 52% chance that I will be the victor in this contest, provided I manage to not go so hard on the bike that I have entirely discombobulated by the time I have to start running.
But I've been part of a relay team in a half iron-distance race before, and I was pretty much unable to even walk after the ride. I can easily imagine being in a similar state in this race. In which case The Hammer may win simply by being able to complete.
That said, I am a somewhat competitive person myself and do not intend for that to happen.
Please, by all means, please feel to speculate yourself on what the outcome of this race will be.
Hey, it's just a friendly thought experiment. Right?
A Note from Fatty: A big thanks to those of you who have bought copies of Susan's book, The Forgotten Gift. And an even bigger thanks to those of you who have left a review of the book. I've been really happy to see that the appeal of the book goes way beyond the teenager market I had originally talked about — adults are loving it too.
If you haven't picked up a copy yet, please do. You can find it available in paperback, as well as in Kindle and Nook formats.
I'm not even going to try to disguise this post. Plain and simple, this one's all about how proud I am of my 17-year-old son, Brice. Brice is a gifted kid. Extraordinarily smart (he was the top student in his gifted student class back in sixth grade). A great sense of humor. Good at pretty much everything he tries.
He also battles severe depression, which would have been bad enough on its own, but pretty much wiped him out for a few years as his mom's cancer got really bad and then took her life.
I don't want to go into the bad times he's had, though. Not in this post. What I want to do is write about a few awesome things that have happened lately.
The University of Utah has a great program, called TeenScope, Brice participated in. And it did amazing things for him — in fact, I'd say it's no exaggeration to say that the program saved his life.
It's also the program my insurance company, Cigna, actively battled me on covering. While they eventually paid for part of it, several thousand dollars are now my responsibility — it's my hope that royalties from Susan's book will help meet that.
Following that program, Brice started coming back to us — I don't even know how to describe it better than that. He even started going back to regular school, and is now back in school full time.
A couple weeks ago, Brice did something he hasn't done in — quite literally — years. He — on his own — joined an extracurricular program at school, called Academic Decathlon (AcaDec). Essentially, this is competitive test-taking, which may not sound all that exciting to you unless you happen to be really good at taking tests.
The thing is, though, Brice joined the school's AcaDec team pretty late in the year, and didn't have time to read the books and essays that were the subject of this year's essays and tests.
So he talked with some of his teammates, getting the best sense of the topics he could, and traveled with the team to the state competition.
When he came home, he told us all about the essay assigned: compare a particular Russian short story (which he hadn't read, and the name of which I can't remember) to the novel Dr. Zhivago (which he also hadn't read).
"I totally had to bluff it," he told the family, saying that he turned it into an essay comparing thematic scope potential of short stories to what is possible in novels, and what each is best suited for.
"Hey, don't worry about it," I started, wanting to let him know that to me it wasn't important that he didn't do well; it was great that he had simply tried.
And in fact, Brice was an important reason his team will now be participating in AcaDec online Nationals.
He and I have agreed we will each read Dr. Zhivago by then.
Getting back into his academic groove is only part of the story, though. Around the beginning of the year, Brice also agreed to train with me to run a five-mile race in Moab.
We started by running 2.5 miles, inching up to our longest run before the race itself: 4.25 miles last week.
And yes, Brice really is half a foot taller than The Hammer and I (Susan's dad and grandfather were both 6′4″).
The Hammer went to get on a bus to the half-marathon starting line; Brice and I found ourselves at the end of the line for the bus to the five-mile starting line (same course, just eight miles further down the canyon).
As it turned out, the last bus didn't quite have room for us, so we — along with a half-dozen other runners — were put on a van.
Even as riders on the very last bus, we arrived at the starting line with almost an hour to kill. "Show me your awesome running pose," I said.
Brice is way too obliging.
I swear, races are 90% toilet-related.
It was a good way to get ready for a race to begin — standing around for a long time at a starting line just makes me anxious, which in turn makes me need to pee (yes, more toilet-related observations. See?).
We got to the starting line just a couple minutes before the race began, and settled in where we figured we belonged: right in the middle of the pack.
"Are you nervous?" I asked Brice.
"Show me your 'very nervous' face anyway," I said.
Like I said, Brice is way too accommodating.
I need to learn not to hold my mouth open in that position when I'm concentrating. I think it may look a little bit silly.
Honestly, I didn't care even a tiny bit about how fast we went or whether we walked half of the course, or whatever. The fact that my son was outside, doing something with me, was a massive victory, and we both knew it.
"A year ago, would you have guessed you'd be out here today, doing this?" I asked.
And he was right. We finished our first mile in under nine minutes, a pace faster than we had ever run in training.
"Yep," said Brice. But he continued going faster.
"This is an amazing day," Brice told me as we hit the halfway mark and came out of the canyon.
How did he get to be so tall and skinny?
We took one more break at the four mile mark, after which I asked Brice to slow down a bit during the final mile. He was dropping me.
With a half mile left to go, I looked ahead and could see the finish line banner. "We're going to do it," I said.
"That was fun," Brice told me, which was pretty much the most awesome thing I've ever heard in my whole life.
"Let's keep doing this," I said. "Maybe even work up to a downhill half marathon this autumn." He agreed we should. We started talking about doing the Mt. Nebo half this Fall.
Then we walked into the post-race feed zone, which is really well stocked at this race. Cookies, chips, ice cream bars, chocolate milk, more chips, candy. Brice got some of everything.
Which made me feel a little bit bummed about the sad little cup of water I had gotten for myself on the way through.
Brice and I walked back to the car, changed, and came back to the race venue to wait for The Hammer to finish. While we did, Brice went through the feed zone again (I figured we were within our rights, since I had gotten nothing at all on the way through).
Then we went to wait at the finish line. As we stood there I told Brice that The Hammer's previous best on this course was a 1:45, so we started craning our necks, looking for her orange, black and white jersey at 1:40.
I got a picture of her with Estella, a woman we've become friends with, even though we never see her anywhere except for at races.
She's not even from the same county as us, but we've run into her at this race twice, at the Ogden marathon, and at the Boston marathon. She and The Hammer run very similar times, and both have husbands considerably slower than they are.
As we started home, Brice conked out immediately and slept for the duration of the three hour drive. Like most teenagers, he has an infinite capacity for sleep.
As we drove home, I thought a little bit about what we had done: a five-mile race. We had built it up in our minds to be something big, but when it came down to it, the race itself had lasted just over three-quarters of an hour.
I guess races are as meaningful as you make them. And this time, what we did still seems huge. I don't think that's going to change.