So I made out to yonder west coast in one piece and have started things rolling in the corporate world. blah blah blah. More on that later.

First, I will enact a one-act play that may or may not have actually happened last night in Palo Alto. As everyone knows, cyclists favor leg hair removal to reduce road rash and enhance post-race massage, normally by using a razor (by gillette, not motorola). A few advanced souls have ventured into the dark world of smooth-maker alternatives, namely the ways of the wax. Apologies in advance to my girlfriend Heather.

The players:

Sheff: self
BBB: young south american receptionist at palo alto day spa/salon thing (the B's stand for big, boobies, and bimbo in no particular order).
W: waxer lady (a strongly opinionated african american woman in her 40's)

Scene: 7pm, some day spa place that I made a leg waxing appt with back on Sunday; upstairs room with aroma therapy, bad music and a woefully uncomfortable massage table. lots of melted wax. HOTT Z98 is playing in the background.

W is applying hot wax action to Sheff's frontal leg areas...
Sheff: So, how many clients do you usually treat during the day?
W: Actually, you's my first leg wax ever. I usually just do eyebrows and moustaches and shit.
Sheff: What was that?
-SSHHHCCCCKKKK!!!-
Sheff: OW! My epidermis!

Later, BBB enters the room, rather uninvited, to 'hang out'...
BBB: So W, did you do your hair here today? It looks nice.
W: Shit no, girl, didn't have time. But I did get my wax on.
BBB: Do you do your own eyebrows?
W: Yeah, but yesterday I did this here beard.
W makes beard outline on her face and is not joking.
Sheff recoils in disgust.
-SSSSHHHCCCKKKKK!!!!-

Moments later, the mounting pain of the wax experiment taking its toll on poor Sheff, BBB reappears after closing the doors of the spa downstairs for the day. She sits on the edge of the massage table, removes her jacket, and reveals what can only be described as two things much larger than Sheff's head that were in fact, not Sheff's head, stuffed into a very teeny tiny shirt thing. Pain is replaced by awe and dismay at the utter (no pun) physical impossibility of such an event.
Sheff: cough

In the throes of the last few wax yanks, heading towards the all-important no-mans-land border of Sheff's thigh and his boxer briefs, BBB decides to lend a hand...
W: Alright Sheff, we almost done with your front side. Just gots to get these here thighs.
BBB: Oh, can I help? I can keep the wax from getting on your boxers
Sheff: That's quite alright, I think it-
BBB does some shorts 'adjustment' before Sheff can move his hands.
W: Damn girl! You tryin' to take a peek at his special areas!
BBB: Aw come on, you know you want to peek too!
W: Well, you know girl! Awwww shit!
W high-5's BBB. boobies shake, laughter erupts.
Sheff: Is it getting hot in here?

Sheff leaves the spa place feeling confused, coated in wax residue and quite sore below the 'special areas'.

Unfortunately, this is a true story, quotes are as precise as I can recall. Still in shock.

But my lanksters be smooth yo!

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Today I found myself writhing in laughter while listening to an NPR report about a downed US helicopter in Africa. No, I don't 'hate freedom' any more than I 'want to make out with Saddam', but seriously, it's Djibouti!

Reading about something happening in Djibouti would rarely garner a second thought, but when a deeply voiced news correspondent suddenly mentions a helicopter crashing off the coast of my fine white ass, let it be known that you my have my undivided attention. How long was Cheney going to wait to tell me about this?

Thanks to all the true playas that came out tonight to see me off to California. We had a great time at Mas, even if those jackasses made us wait 2 hours for a table. Maybe next time I'll remember to bring some additional H along to help move up on 'the list' a bit quicker.

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Man, this has been a pretty epic week:
Monday: Recovery spin, 12 minutes. Felt pretty wasted today after staying up late to read the "Live Report" on cyclingnews.com of the final stage of the Tour de Langkawi.
Tuesday: Experiment with various recovery drinks, 1.5 hrs. 1.5 hrs on road, small-gear intervals, 30 seconds "on"/270 seconds"off" (emphasis on form).
Wednesday: Off
Thursday: Checked out sales on bike shoes on eBay, 1 hr at Zone 2. I definitely need carbon soles for light weight and power transfer (was briefly in Zone 3 when considering the merits of nylon soles). 1.5 hrs, clicking links on stolenunderground.com, moments at Zone 5 when getting angry at the dopers. Man, I'll never dope. Unless, of course, you consider any of the following "dope": caffeine, mescaline, saw palmetto, klonipin, ambien, lexapro, zinc. Or crystal meth.
Friday: Still pretty tore up from Thursday, so I took today off. It's important to listen to your body.

Saturday: Fury at the dopers: 1.5 hours, Zone 4. Riding: .75 hours in Zone 2.35, restricted myself to 39x13. Also practiced bike handling by doing circles in the Chick-Fil-A parking lot at the mall. (Note to self: Question for Coach: do I need a compact crank?)
Sunday: HUGE. I got up early for a big pre-ride breakfast: bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, coffee, lots of pre-ride power stuff. Then I decided I needed some potassium, so I threw down a couple bananas. Then I figured I needed some more carbs for the long ride, so I ate two bagels. This did trigger a catastrophic foodcoma, yes, but in the dreams I had during my sixteen-hour nap, I was always in the big ring. I'm going hard, dudes.

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Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, bitch! Here at the Cat 3 Corner, we don't need to adhere to 'diets' and 'healthy eating' like our pro counterparts. Fat free yogurt? I think not, even 2 pounds a day.

This being my last Saturday morning in Charlottesville before moving out to Palo Alto on Monday, I thought it would be nice to blow up a nice big breakfast, free from Dr. Phil-like restrictions. That means pancakes, eggs and bacon. Mmmm, mmmm, bitch!


You might notice that I rocked out a dope Mickey Mouse pancake on the ol' cast iron griddle. Unfortunately, during the all important 'flip phase', things went horribly awry:


Woof! Mickey took a spill, carnage ensues. Ended up having to amputate the left ear after significant batter loss over the edge. Walt is gonna be PISSED!

Anyway, come out to Mas tonight if you're in town for my going away party (2/18). It's gonna be crunk yo.

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Tonight I went to a play with the elite crew: Tha P-Hen, Cool Honey, Christoph, Zack the Canadian and some french chick. It was a dope rock opera called "Hedwig and the Angry Inch". It was previously released as an independent film a few years back and is amazing. The story is basically about a very sexually confused East German transvestite wanna-be rock star and his/her life story.

The LiveArts version here in C-ville was surprisingly very good. It all took place on a small music stage (unlike the movie) with full band support. The band was sick, the lead (cross dressed) singer was amazing. It played out as a sort of spoken word autobiography between songs and worked very well.

It was unfortunate that Ian was caught up in a National Geographic reading at the apartment and missed out. I think the combination of sweat-soaked trannies running through the audience, prescription painkillers and classic New Jersey "gay-squirms" would have made for an interesting evening for the rest of us.

I'm currently hung up on the 3rd season of '24', possibly the only show I've ever liked enough to follow up with backlogging the DVD collection (save Family Guy). That Jack Bauer is one tough biotch. Each commercial-free episode is right around 42 minutes long. Thus, for the past few days, every time I get a 42 minute window or so, BLING A DING goes the DVD player for just one more hot ep. I am a slave, and it is great.

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Welcome to the Cat 3 Corner, sponsored by 2skinnypros. Consider this blog a natural antidote to the 'pro'-ish nature of its parent site.

What is Cat 3? Glad you asked. In the world of totally, totally amateur cycling (to be referred to as tot-am from here on out) in the US, you gotta earn the ability to upgrade your status. Everyone (even Ian!) had to start at some point in the lowly, slumming Category V (Cat 5). It is a place chock full of hairy legged, middle aged lawyers with highly questionable bike handling skills. You race, you place, you get points, you upgrade: Cat 5 to Cat 4, etc. But wait! The law of diminishing returns suggests that there exists a point where 1) it's gonna take a load of points to upgrade to the next category, and 2) the peeps you're racing against are kicking the crap out of you every weekend at a rate proportional to the amount of beer you drink during the week. For a lot of us, that point is Category 3. Cat 3 is the beginning for many, but for us, it is the end.

The great thing is that we don't give a toot. Tha P-Hen and myself are in it not so much to win it (although winning does not suck) as we are to keep it real as it were. Cat 3 racers certainly roll deep and it could be argued that many of us are on the cusp of the much-maligned Cat 1/2 upgrade, but to be honest, why bother?

The Cat 3 Corner also exists as a forum to admonish (and mock) the 'Tainted Ones', those in the elite ranks of our sport that have made questionable decisions about the use of certain illegal performance enhancing materials. Doping Sucks! However, the Cat 3 Corner fully supports caffeine and alcohol doping, especially using the former to combat the ill effects of the latter.

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