Amongst the slew of reasons I am a poor cyclist is that I have little self-discipline. Fans of my cycling hero, Jens Voigt, claim that his will can substitute for an anvil, should the need arise for an anvil. My will, on the other hand, more closely resembles a gym sock full of old herring. The need for a gym sock full of old herring very seldom arises. Saddled with this flaccid, vile-smelling will, I am forced to resort to trickery, to con myself into riding my bike enough to meet my athletic goals. (Yes, you can have goals without will, a sad state of affairs this blog hopes to document.)
Some of the tricks I've been forced to employ over the years include: signing up for charity centuries, not having a car or even a license, taunting my younger, fitter wife and now, five years after everybody else, starting a blog. I'm hoping guilt over not posting will force me to go on rides, so I have something to post about. Every week that goes by without a post, I imagine, my legions of fans, hungry for more fascinating tales of slow, middle-aged guys riding their bikes clumsily around and around north Portland, will clamor for the sweet, sweet nectar of my firm, supple prose.
More likely, I'll lose interest in this project in a month or two. This blog will end up in the guest-room closet, with my recording studio, D & D miniatures and my breeding pair of Devon Rex cats.
But until that time, behold! Behold the glory that is nearly four decades of cycling mediocrity: the too short khaki touring shorts, the locked elbows, the tube socks, the giant Bell helmet and unkempt beard. Behold The Fred!
