The sun is barely out, it is freezing. Like a warrior of old I prepare for the ride. A half bowl of pasta, a half dose of hypertension medicine (I think I meant “like an old warrior”). I pull on my tight tights (shorts) over my stomach knowing it will roll down as soon as I bend on the bike. My one and only loosely fitting jersey (none of my bright yellow ones can fit me now) I hurriedly shake into. I carry my socks and new Sebago hard-soled rubber shoes silently out of the room. With my other hand I hold on to my phone, handkerchief, and a 4x year-old man’s reading glasses (both the x and the 4 are notional numbers, not meant to be accurate). I am ready.
I woke up with a pinch of ache on my neck. Oh shoot! is my blood pressure up. Can’t be. I waited all week and weekend for this ride. No pressure, no fat food, no alcohol (well a little, these drat Christmas parties), so how can my blood pressure be up. I pad silently out of the room clutching the Omron blood pressure device which has carried me through real hypertension nights in Hong Kong; the unit is almost a decade old, far beyond its rated life I think, but it still works. The battery cover is gone, the case is falling apart, held together by repeated applications of Scotch Tape. Before I dig into the pasta, I strap on the Omron unit and check my blood pressure. Mm, it is slightly elevated, test it 3 times (maybe it will go down!). Perhaps it is the incorrect dose of Norvasc I took the day before. Without looking at the third reading, I take the half dose and start loading up on pasta.
The pasta tastes blank. It should, because I only asked for plain pasta, no sauce. Best prep for a bike ride, I was told. Last night, I refilled my plastic medicine bottle of honey, molasses, raspberry jam, and salt. This is my power shot, the energy boost of last resort. I readied 6 bars of Trail Mix and the smaller, nicer bar whose name is too small to read. The water bottles were clean and ready, still empty, beside the bicycle stand. My helmet and gloves were positioned. Even the clear plastic bag for money (and maybe my phone in case it rained) was laid out neatly. Now you understand why my blood pressure was elevated. I must have been just a little bit excited.
Side bar. Months ago, I read about powergel. I made mine from scratch, figuring out what it would contain. It should contain protein? so I added finely ground oatmeal into a half-cup of honey and molasses. The closest thing to a ready-made, disposable, suck-into container is an ice-candy plastic bag, narrow, single-dose ready. I poured the stick mixture into the bag, the whole half-cup, following the principle that one cannot have too much energy in a long bike ride. Perhaps I imagined Popeye’s can of spinach and its explosive effect. Yes, explosive burst of energy is what I always imagine the effect of a shot of this dangerously high-calorie goo.
Prototype test one was in an internal subdivision ride. I stashed the sticky (yes, even the outside felt sticky) ice-candy plastic together with a back-up home-made power bar (another story, may next time), and a bottle of water. After 5 kilometers, decent enough to want, need, a power shot, I paused, ceremoniously tore the plastic bottom with my teeth, much like Combat soldiers pulling off grenade pins with their steel-hard teeth. I slurped the mixture, imagining the bolt of energy.
Man! It tasted awful. The ground oatmeal made my mouth extremely dry. I looked at the half-eaten pack, shook my head, and then threw it away.
I bought 3 real powergels, still hoping for the explosion of power; I carefully rationed them (for they were Pxx per pack). When I finally tore open (with my teeth again) a precious pack (banana-strawberry flavor), I was floored by its awful thick sugared fluid taste. I imagined the burst of energy that I assumed would come from a store-bought pack. Mmm. As ineffectual as coffee to a caffeine-oblivous drinker. But the experience made me realize that all powergels tasted like honey with some artificial flavoring. Saved me money. From then on, I created my own powershots.
Let me share the recipe: half honey, a quarter molasses, and a quarter of one’s favorite jam, plus a largish pinch of salt, enough to feel its presence. I like tart sour jam because it balances the sweetness of honey and plays with the heaviness of molasses. Salt is good because it reduces further the cloying sweetness, plus it helps the body retain fluid.
A few weeks later, I saw a white 100-tablet plastic Vitamin C bottle and had a eureka moment. It was and remains the perfect re-usable, custom-dose (sip or gulp depending on one’s need) container for my powershot.
I am ready a few minutes early because Ernie is a few minutes late. Rare occurrence. I try to lie down on the sofa but the short air-pump, 5 Trail Mix Bars, phone on the back pocket of my jersey feel uncomfortably in the way. I stand up and update the air in my tires. I try to get them a shade over 100psi to be as hard and energy efficient as safely possible. Good thing I remembered.
We pulled out to the road a few minutes later, hypertension forgotten. Two riders off to another adventure. I don’t know about Ernie but I also forgot my healthy stomach riding over my shorts. I am now a bike rider again, in the same genre as Lance Armstrong (I don’t know the name of any other rider), with as much right to the yellow jersey as he does. I hook one earphone to my right ear, I tap on my 4 to 5 star cycling playlist on my iPod, and then swayed effortlessly to the tune of Bryan Adams’ Summer of 69!
