I Can’t Climb, But I’m Not Going to let it Stop Me

Kronos Masters Cycling team holds their early season training camp out of Chris Lyman's Napa household.
Kronos Masters Cycling team holds their early season training camp out of Chris Lyman’s Napa household. Photo: Jim Merithew/Element.ly

I can’t climb.

Never could.

It is because I lack commitment.

And the fact I like pastries.

Some people learn their love of music or soccer or baseball or running from their father.

From my papa I learned my love of the danish.

I am convinced he could sense a perfectly made apple fritter within walking distance of anywhere he was standing in the world.

It was uncanny.

Despite all this, I prefer to think my lack of climbing ability is due to my desire for balance in my life.

I love photography and my wife and my dog and playing my guitar and Sweet Sallies from the bakery in my neighborhood.

And every time I get hell bent on dropping some weight and becoming an actual, legitimate, hardcore bicyclist it lasts about three weeks. Then I long for some reruns of House, a cream-filled long john and some time on the porch with my 1958 Telecaster and my Tweed Harvard.

But here’s the thing.

I’ve signed up for Martona Dles Dolomites.

An event for climbers.

A ride of about 14,000 feet of climbing over 85 miles.

So don’t get me wrong, just because I can’t climb doesn’t mean I don’t.

I love climbing. I love the suffering, the burning lungs, the views, the reward of cresting the summit and I especially love trying to chase back on over the top.

And it’s not as if I don’t understand what it takes. I have read every article and pointed my cursor at every clickbait headline ever written:

Climb Better in 7 Days.

Lose Weight Without Thinking About It.

Be a Better Cyclist With These 3 Simple Steps.

Ride Your Strengths, Train Your Weaknesses.

I am a veritable font of training, dieting, and physiological motivation knowledge.

I have just three primary problems: breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Breakfast. I would rather have french toast with peanut butter and jelly, than an egg white omelette.

Lunch. I grew up in a household where it wasn’t really lunch unless it was between two piece of bread and came with a big pile of chips.

And finally, dinner. Dinner is not dinner without a some calorie bloated desert. Plus have you actually seen what a healthy portion looks like. I mean really, it’s a portion for lilliputians.

Alright, so I am going to be 50 this year, a number I have not been able to get my brain around, but it is happening.

And I’m going to be a better climber by Martona time.

They say if you really want to reach a goal you should write it down. So there it is in writing.

I am going to commit myself to being a better climber.

And this means I am going to commit myself to being a healthy eater, have an actual “training” plan and do the one thing every smart coach will tell you to do: Go hard, really hard, when it is time to and go easy, really easy, when it is time.

First things first, I am 200 pounds of heavenly joy and I need to be closer to 178 to be at climbing weight. I have been as big as 250 glorious pounds, but haven’t been under 199 pounds in years and years, so this will be an interesting time for me.

I passed the first challenge of my new plan last night. I was invited to a media event with open bar, lots of deep fried food and a mile-long table of sweets.

I was tired and almost convinced myself I was hungry, even though I had eaten a sensible dinner.

I must have walked past the empanadas 20 times, sipping on my bottle of water and questioning whether eating 40 of those little fuckers would make me a more balanced, healthy person or just a weak smack-talking want-to-be.

I scuttled out of there empanada free.

Join me on my journey to the top of the climb, as I weigh the daily choices and myself.

Martona here I come.