One season, one race, one ride…30 pounds…this is my journey.

To look at me in street clothes you would never guess I’m an extreme athlete. I’m fat; the last time I weighed myself, over a week ago, I was at 205 pounds. I have chin fat, the faintest hint of man boobs, and flab around my mid-section. I eat too much, drink too much soda, and I’m always on the “tomorrow diet” meaning I always intend to start tomorrow.

To see me on the street would be to see a fat guy. But I’m also an avid mountain biker. A guy who has put his fat tire down on the best singletrack West Virginia has to offer. A guy who can haul 260 odd pounds up climb with a 21% gradient and still be alive at the top. The irony is, that despite my weight, I’m a far better climber than I am a descender. Where most Clydesdales live for the descent I thrill for the climb.

The trouble is I’m tired of being fat. I’m tired of handicapping myself with 30 extra pounds of baggage strapped to my waist. I’m tired of people looking at me in disbelief when I share with them my love of the sport, and it may be shallow, but I’m tired of appearing the poser even when I’m not.

For just one season, just one ride, just one race, I want to be fast. I want to leave the extra me behind and grind away lost in the rhythm of pedal and stroke. I want to climb and not have to stop at the top, I want zoom and fly and not worry about saving that pound by shorting my Camelbak that few precious drops of water or ice. I want to wear a kit without frightening small children and dogs and most of all I want to be faster than my wife (more about her later). One season, one race, one ride…30 pounds…this is my journey.