Mickey

I know it. You know it, too, without me even saying it. I knew it even when I was doing it that I shouldn't be doing it, but I had no choice.

I had to fiddle with my bike saddle. The old one had grown intolerable. But Wildflower is less than two weeks away. Not a time to be mickeying with stuff. But I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't live with the current situation another minute, or so I thought.

Well, you know the rest of the story. How I screwed things up even worse. I suppose I should continue with the story, though, just for the sake of possibly sparing somebody else the same fate.

I violated what, Rule No. 2 (there's got to be a more important rule, I just can't remember it at the moment) for Triathletes: Do Not Mess With Stuff Right Before a Race. Blatantly, and flagrantly, and with flair. As only I can, which is to say, royally.

To be a little fair to myself, or perhaps to be more unfair—your choice—this problem actually began last fall. That's when, after the racing season ended, I swapped out my old saddle for an identical NEW one. No big deal, except it took forever to get it anywhere near comfortable. Did I install it without a level? You betcha.

Do I still not have a level? You betcha.

Will I buy a level now? You betcha. As soon as I'm ambulatory again.

Back to the fall (no, the irony does not escape me). This new saddle is tolerable until the really long rides start during the winter. Then it grows more and more uncomfortable. The one it replaced wasn't all that great anyway, so I just chalk it up to wear.

I buy a new saddle—same manufacturer but significant upgrades have been made since I bought the old ones about, oh, three years ago. I am happy, contemplating all the comfort I'll be enjoying at Wildflower and beyond.

So I tell myself, last Tuesday, I'll just do today's workout on the trainer. I'll put the new saddle on and I can fiddle with it until I get it just right, indoors.

I get out my measuring tape. I take a couple of measurements. I mark the old saddle. I measure the new one. I observe that the new saddle is about an inch shorter fore-to-aft and about two-thirds of an inch thinner top to bottom.

I lay out my tools. I adjust the seatpost to accommodate the lower profile. I take off the old saddle, put on the new one. I am feeling pleased with myself because I can handle this.
Like hell I can. I realize I don't have a level so I have to eyeball whether the saddle is indeed horizontal. OK, I'm up to this. Sure, that looks good. Don't want it pointing up, and don't want it pointing down, that's for sure.

Only one problem. I cannot get comfortable. Not for love or ready money.

I remeasure. I tilt the saddle. I tilt it some more. I move it fore. I move it aft. I am on and off the bike so many times I lose count. The project has now stretched into the next bike ride, on Thursday. On Friday's easy spin, I think things may be coming together. Either that or I'm getting used to some horrible new geometry.

I keep telling myself that we're talking only millimeters, or maybe centimeters, here. But in my heart of hearts I know they matter—a lot.

Now it's time for the week's long ride. I spend the first half-hour continuing to monkey around with the saddle. Now I am scared. I don't want to trash my legs on a long, hard ride in a funky setup. It may be off only by millimeters, but I am pretty certain it is off. The scariest part of all is that I no longer have ANY idea how to make it better. None at all. I am in way over my head, and I know it.

Thankfully, I know that relief is around the corner. I'd arranged, much earlier, to go see my doctor (also a bike-fit expert) to check out a couple of other bike-fit things later in the day. So, at the conclusion of my ride—during which, surprise, I felt like I had very little power—I was off to his office.

We set up the bike. He gets out a level.

Drum roll. "You know, your saddle isn't even level. It's tilted up."

I sigh. "I guessed as much." "Guess" being the key word here.

He measures. He drops plumb bobs. Yes, I had screwed things up pretty well, probably starting in the fall and then amplifying those mistakes last week. Piling on, I think they call it. He repairs one thing, then another, all the while cautioning me about making changes so close to a race, me sighing more and admitting to sin after sin. ("Well, I didn't really have a level…" "Yes, that's the good knee that's hurting…" "You know, it seemed so simple when I started…")

I was immediately more comfortable. My legs felt like my old legs—only, well, older. I no longer wanted to throw my bike into the Pacific, and I once again had dreams of comfort at Wildflower and beyond.

But don't ask about Sunday's run, with hip flexors so fatigued from the hours spent in my weird setup the day before that lifting my legs was a challenge by the end of the run. Don't ask my hamstrings, either. They're not speaking to me and they won't talk to you, either.

So as you round out your training before these first early-season races, here are a few things to remember: Millimeters matter. Don't mickey with stuff. Dance with what brung ya.

Oh, and another thing: Those tinny-sounding little background voices—the ones that say things like, "Don't do this now, it can wait,"—listen to them. They know what they're talking about. Don't ask how I know.

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