I've destroyed any intestinal fortitude I may have had with truly pathetic eating the past week, gorging myself on Little Caesars, not once but twice, and then the second time trying to counter the effects by eating a bacon cheeseburger at lunch.
No, maybe it wasn't the Little Caesars...maybe it was the free breakfast burritos the Commissioners handed out in appreciation to all County employees. Either way...gastrointestinal distress ensued.
My struggle with weight has less to do with amounts of food and more to do with types of food. When I bemoan my fatness my contemporaries are no help.
"It's okay, you ride your bike a lot."
This is true, but the truth is that if I didn't ride my bike so much I'd be 400 pounds and fantasizing about auditioning for the Biggest Loser.
People aren't doing me any favors by complementing me on my prolific cycling. I'm aware of how many calories I burn by riding. Strava throws it out automatically for me to see. What I'm not aware of is how many calories I ingest in a typical day. My guesstimate is roughly 4,200.
If it doesn't move and even vaguely resembles a cheeseburger I will eat it and three of its closest friends. Later that evening when my wife suggests pizza for dinner I will shamelessly--and very enthusiastically--say yes. I feel guilt only when my belly is full. When its empty I feel hunger. Finger devouring hunger. Ravenous, obsessive, red rage hunger.
Anybody got a Snickers?
The madness must stop. I must reign in the devouring beast. Ox find good fuel. Ox no eat bad fuel! Froot. Sa-lud. Drink wa-wa.
Anyway, diet has been a huge hurdle for me. It doesn't help that I've basically been able to eat anything my entire adult-sized life and maintain a fairly moderate weight. It's only because I stay obsessively active. I've burned a ridiculous amount of calories in my life.
However, what I think is "moderate" gets interpreted differently by others. During my undergraduate sentence (against my will) I took a gen ed health class. We had to do a fitness survey. When the pretty young co-ed noted my BMI she described me...not as "overweight", not as "obese", not as "fit like Brad Pitt"...no, she scribbled on her smug little clipboard: "fatter than average."
I didn't consider myself overweight at all at the time. And so began my runaway decline. I conceded defeat. I was fat. That was the first day I felt my age. I was happily married, still in my early thirties, but this pretty young co-ed heartlessly slashed those words across my heart ("fatter than average" in case you forgot) smashing any illusions I had that I might still be attractive to 18 year old co-eds. I didn't need to be attractive to them, it just helps your ego a bit when they don't completely dismiss you as old and grotesque.
I should have been shamed to ripped abs on that day. I'm shamed that I wasn't more shamed. I probably went home and ate a large pizza by myself while whining to my wife about the mean girl at school.
"Can you believe what she called me...mprhlgarblegulp?!"
My bike commuting the past few years has helped. My Leadville obsession has helped. Nothing seems to help my brain "click" and engage my internal motivators though. I did actually qualify as a Clydesdale (200+lbs) for a brief time. That actually spurred me to action. I resolved to get below 200 and stay there. So far I have.
Like Fatty says: I'd rather be a fat cyclist than just fat. Cause believe me, you take the cyclist out of this guy and you'll get fatter than fatter than average.
photo by zazoosh
Regardless of my mass, I can still climb a hill;
from the Crested Butte Alpine Odyssey