Vinnie Tortorich

Dr. Christopher Thompson goes down in my book as the biggest asshole the world has ever known. I’m bringing his name up because I don’t think it should ever go away. We should always remember who this jerk is. For everyone with a short memory, let me remind you of what this character did. This doctor, by the way, took an oath to save humans in any way possible. What did he do to make himself the world’s biggest jerk? He went out of his way to hit two cyclists on Mandeville Canyon in Brentwood, California. I’ve descended this hill at least one billion times in my life. I can tell you that it’s anywhere from two to six percent, which basically allows a cyclist to move at a rate up to or greater than 40 miles per hour. As it were, the good doctor didn’t like people riding bikes on a street near his home. So he took it upon himself to speed ahead of two cyclists, slam on his brakes and cause them to smash into his bumper, eject from their bikes and fly through his back window, critically injuring both. I told you that to tell you this. About 28 months later and 10 miles away as the crow flies, tragedy struck again. This time, much worse. James Laing, 46, died when he was struck by a car in Agoura Hills, California over the weekend. He was riding in a designated bike lane. I will be the first to say that accidents happen. They are unfortunate, but human error cannot be avoided. I can live knowing that. What I have trouble with is people like S.D. Whitmansegal. This woman was allegedly driving intoxicated at around 3:30 p.m., which generally leads me to think that this waste of a human being was probably drinking in the morning. At that time, it’s not 5 o’clock somewhere, at least not on this continent. What makes matters worse is reportedly Whitemansegal fled the scene. Witnesses apparently chased her down and held her until authorities arrived. Do I think this woman needs help? Absolutely. I also feel she should spend the rest of her life in prison. If you think my views are too tough, think about Mrs. Laing. Ask Lulu Laing how she feels. Her husband left for a bike ride and never came home. If you’re asking yourself why I made reference to the incident in 2008 and connected it to the one last week, it’s simple. These are both roads that I frequent on almost a daily basis on my bike rides. I guess sometimes it hits a little to close to home.

A lot of the cyclists who will read this won’t remember the good old days. When I say good old days I’m only talking at best 20 years ago. You see, I pretty much know my demographic as a blogger. The cyclists who have been riding long enough to remember this generally don’t read blogs. I think it’s their loss. I’ve learned a lot of good things from reading blogs. The simple fact is that most bloggers don’t have the advertising agenda. Bloggers can write whatever they want. They don’t have to worry about Kraft or Nabisco or Procter and Gamble and anyone else who pays the regular media. But I digress. What I want to talk about today is your crotch and how to protect chafing and blisters when you’re cycling. Let’s face it, if you’re doing 90 revolutions a minute and you’re riding for three or more hours, there’s some friction going on. Back when I started cycling, the pad and shorts were simply a piece of leather also known as a chamois. From what I can tell, most pads and shorts weren’t made from chamois. It was usually deer or sheep skin, or in some cases, the hide of a cow. Nevertheless, once you washed these things, you had to treat them. That’s where chamois cream came in. Then as cycling grew around the world, so did the technology of the shorts. There is no shortage of different types of synthetics in shorts all with the promise of hours and hours of riding chafe free. As most guys who spend upwards of five hours a day in the saddle can tell you, those shorts or pads don’t exist. Most who ride long distances still use the same chamois cream that was used in the past on their leather shorts. Adding the cream allows a cyclist to go much longer without chafing, if at all. I told you that to tell you this. There are many creams made specifically and “engineered” to work synergistically between man and the synthetic pad. These creams work well. Two of the best on the market are Chamois Butt’r and Assos Chamois Cream. Although these are very good creams, in my opinion, they are quite expensive. In order to save money and get the same effect if not better, try these. The first is Bag Balm. The second that I like is Udderly Smooth. Both of these creams were originally used back in the old days when people milked their own cows. The creams also have an antiseptic that helps prevent bacteria. The great news is, they are less than half the price than the ones specifically made for riding a bike. A couple of side notes here. I generally on long rides like to mix the combination of Bag Balm and Udderly Smooth. The other note, never use Vasoline or other petroleum products. They don’t work. And if you do use Vasoline, good luck getting it out of your shorts. Before you think I’m going senile, I do realize I’ve written a similar blog before. In the cycling world I get this question more than any other, so I thought it would be alright to touch on this again.

Sometimes we get a great comment and we like to highlight it. This one was posted on the Vinnie’s Secret blog post. Here’s what a reader had to say:

Just got linked to this, and I love it. Best line ever about how regardless of size, women will always have all the vaginas.

I have watched my weight fluctuate over the years. I’ve been a bunch of different sizes. I used to struggle with my self-image, until I realized the only time I didn’t like myself was when I put myself in a position where I felt people judging me. I stay away from L.A. and the “mini-L.A.s” around the world. I am happy, my man loves me exactly the way that I am. I am comfortable to grow or shrink into whatever size feels best.

Guess I should just be careful to keep my vagina.

“Those who can do. Those who can’t teach. Those who can’t teach, teach P.E.” – Woody Allen

Somewhere around 1987 I seemed to be hitting on all cylinders when it came to fitness. As far as my job description, I was the head strength coordinator at the Newman School in New Orleans. It’s a great school with a great sports program. The school produced the likes of Sean Tuohy. If you’re wondering who he is, there’s a best selling book and movie about him you may have heard of called the Blind Side. That school also produced two MVP Super Bowl champions, the Manning brothers, Peyton and Eli. If you’re not a fan of the NFL, just turn on your TV and within minutes you will see them hocking something. When I wasn’t busy with Newman, I was busy with my other jobs, all relating to fitness. There was the radio show called Talking Fitness that I hosted, and I had my private clients. I loved what I did back then. I still love it today. At one point a woman signed on to workout with me three days a week. We’ll call her Sharon, which is not her real name. Sharon listened to everything I told her to do very intently. She asked lots of questions, which most of my clients didn’t. After all, they didn’t care how it worked, they just wanted to lose weight. Not this woman. Not only did she listen intently, she wrote everything down, sometimes asking me what certain words meant. She was like a dream. We were both interested in the same thing. But after a few weeks, Sharon stopped working out with me. Some time had passed, then I heard about another personal trainer in town. This was the mid-80s, there weren’t a lot of trainers out there. Who was the mysterious trainer? You guessed it, Sharon. I guess you could say all of her training to become a fitness expert happened in less than three weeks with me giving her instructions. I told you that to tell you this. I never got angry at Sharon for doing what she did. I figured if anyone was dumb enough to use her as an expert, they got what they deserved. Beside, she didn’t last in the business long. Like many trainers today, she realized it’s not easy money, it’s long hours and if you don’t show results, you’re out. You’re only as good as your last workout. The other day my buddy Johnny asked me if I was certified as a trainer. I said no. He asked me if any of my clients ever ask if I’m certified. I said, “All the time.” And what do I tell them? The same answer I told Johnny. No. Then I explain to them that I’m over qualified. What do I mean? I have an actual college degree from a top university, well known for medicine. And at this point, I have almost 30 years of experience. What do you get from a guy who’s certified? At the very least, a guy who Googled certification, took an online test and was sent a certificate. Are all certifications this bad? No, but they might as well be. Some courses are really intense. You might have to go to a class for a whole weekend. And then buy a book, read it and take a test on a whole separate weekend. Who’s certifying these people who certify trainers? Nobody. These people are just as big a scam artist as a guy who woke up one morning and decided to become a trainer. By the way, I may be in the only profession that anyone can wake up in the morning and say that they’re in the same profession. The only exceptions may be dog walker and window washer. Let’s be honest, window washing does take some skill. Case in point, you can’t wake up in the morning and say, “I’m an astronaut” and be one. Or a doctor for that matter. The point I’m trying to make is simple. If you have a trainer or are considering a trainer, ask questions. If your trainer says they’re certified by the NCSF, ACE, ACSM, ISSA or any other group of letters, tell them thanks but no thanks. Go find yourself a real P.E. teacher.

Last week I ran a blog called “I hate nuns and Gatorade.” If you’re new to the blog, you may want to scroll down. It was one of my better pieces, and statistically it was one of the best. There was no shortage of people who had a problem with the blog. Generally, they were people who also went to Catholic schools who had no problem with the nuns. The following is a chapter from the galleys that I wrote, but have yet to publish. What you are about to read is completely true, and by far not the worst of what happened to me. That was physical pain, the psychological pain is the one I still walk around with today. I told you that so you can read this. This is the last I will say on this subject. The blog will go back to fun fitness and me complaining. Enjoy.

“Mengele’s Bitch” by Vinnie Tortorich

There is one thing that I can say about my parents that most people can’t say: My parents never had fights over anything.

They may have disagreed on minor things, but even that was seldom. They were, and still are, two people who are happy together.

It almost seems impossible that two people who met in a small town, each having only a few dates with other people before meeting each other, would stay together so long and remain happy as ever together.

There is only one fight that I can ever remember them having, and it happens to involve me. At the end of my second-grade year, the head nun along with the nun that had been my teacher decided to call in my parents to discuss my academic career. Although I had passing grades, they felt that my reading and math skills were below average. For that reason, they suggested that my parents hold me back a year and repeat second grade in order to be a stronger student both academically and socially.

My dad thought it was a terrible idea. He believed that a child appears to be a failure when held back a grade.

My mother sided with the nuns, feeling that repeating the grade would benefit me in the long run.

They didn’t have to make a decision right away, which led to a summer of heated discussions around the house. Again, this is an Italian family, so it was not at all out of the ordinary to have anyone and everyone weigh-in on the matter. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles all chipped in their two cents.

I remember getting on my stingray bicycle and riding down a dirt road into my cousin’s sugarcane field just to get away from the baker’s dozen of Italians yelling at the same time over my fate.

As in most Italian arguments, the female wins. So, I repeated second grade.

To this day, I still feel like that nun wanted me back in her class just to try new forms of physical abuse on me. Her creativity was astounding. There was one punishment I received that to this day I can’t imagine how she came up with it. I started wondering if the nuns would get together after dinner, take off their habits, pop a cold one and come up with new forms of torture for 7-year-olds.

Not only do I remember the punishment, but I remember the so-called “infraction” that got me into trouble. In today’s world, most people would serve less time for manslaughter, at least according to Law and Order, which is where I get most of my legal knowledge.

The building that housed most of the primary school dated back to the Civil War. It had these old hardwood floors with ceilings that were more than fifteen feet high. Most classrooms had an old radiator in the corner for heat in the winter. You would be fortunate to have a seat next to the radiator on cold days. If not, you would simply leave your coat on during class. During the warmer months, which was most of the year in south Louisiana, the building would get uncomfortably hot. The temperature would sometimes hit the century mark, mixed with humidity known to reach 100 percent.

To make matters worse, there was no air-conditioning unit. The only way to keep kids from passing out was to keep the windows and the large doors open. Some of the rooms had working ceiling fans, but the ones that worked only had two blades instead of four.

On the day that the “infraction” occurred, there were workers using a jack hammer just outside the door. They were using it to break up some concrete.

Every time the hammer started pounding, the kids would turn and look. The nun scolded the class, and told everyone not to turn around anymore.

A few minutes went by before one of the men dropped about an eight-pound mall onto a pile of sheet metal, causing a loud gong sound. Most of the kids jumped and turned at the startling sound. Everyone quickly turned back toward the chalkboard except me. I must have been too slow because I was caught looking out of the back door.

I was told that this was deliberate disobedience and I would now have to pay for my sins. Holding a paddle in her hand, the nun called me to the front of the class. As I walked up, I assumed that my backside would get an introduction to the broadside of the paddle…again. Instead, she asked me to roll my pants legs above my knees.

I figured she had a change of heart. Maybe I would get away with only kneeling on the hardwood floor. No big deal, I can take that punishment. After all, I only turned around in class to see what all the racket was.

Marylee Mussolini has a heart after all, at least so I thought. As I rolled my pants up, she walked back to her desk, and returned with a brown paper bag. I recognized it as a bag of Mahatma Rice. She poured a pile of the uncooked rice on the floor and instructed me to kneel in it. I slowly bent down putting my hands on the floor first and easing my knee caps onto the rice. The pain shot through my body like lightning. I immediately jumped to my feet.

She then yelled that I was continuing to be disobedient, and that if I didn’t kneel in the rice that I would get a paddling session as well.

So I got down again. I was instructed to stay there for five minutes, holding a Bible in both hands. If I dropped the chunky books, which were tougher for my small hands to grip, my time would start over.

I learned something that day. I was not going to let that bitch beat me. I was going to be strong and show her what I could do. It took every fiber of my eight-year-old body to stay perfectly still as the minutes slowly passed.

Meanwhile, the nun went back to teaching as if nothing had happened. Soon I heard something right behind me. It was a girl sniffling as though she had a cold. I also thought she was whispering my name, so I turned ever-so slightly to find out why she was risking her own punishment.

It was Penny, a girl that I knew from back in pre-school, during my deaf days. She was one of the kids that had been nice to me, never goofing on my speech problem.

She wasn’t sniffling, she was crying. She pointed down at the floor, and as I looked, the pain multiplied because of the movement of my head and neck.

There I was, in my third year as a student at a Catholic school, where a group of people believe in God as their Savior, and I was pouring blood from my knees because I had the gall to look out a door.

“Getting ahead in a difficult profession requires avid faith in yourself. That is why some people with mediocre talent, but with great inner drive, go so much further than people with vastly superior talent.” – Sophia Loren

I’m a happy man today. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I was so happy. Why? Well, I’ll tell you. Yesterday I wrote a blog, and in my mind it was no different than any other blog I write. If you’re a regular reader, you know that I keep them between 500-1,000 words so I don’t bore anyone. I’m not a great writer. I’ve never been trained to write. But let’s face it, I must be alright. I’ve done what many people never do: I’ve had a book published. To me, it’s not about books or fame. I write because I want to get a reaction out of people. Yesterday’s post has gotten no shortage of reaction. I mentioned that I hated nuns. Apparently I pissed off a lot of people. My guess is Christine O’Donnell wasn’t stumping so some folk s had some free time on their hands and found my blog. What most people don’t know is that I have the partial galleys for a book that I promised my mother I wouldn’t have published until after she took her last breath. The book deals with my suffering at the hands of the Catholic Church. I’m actually thinking about putting one of the chapters on this blog. I think it would only take one chapter or a portion of one for people to see what life was like for me in a small, sleepy southern community called Donaldsonville. I didn’t tell you that to tell you this. I’m telling you the rest of this to get the bad taste out of my mouth. Sophia Loren once said, “I’ve never tried to block out the memories of the past, even though some are painful. I don’t understand people who hide from their past. Everything you live through helps to make you the person you are now.” This is a woman who knows about hardship. When I first starting doing this blog, someone told me in order to get my search engine optimization up, I needed to mention celebrities. The more newsworthy the celebrity, the better. You don’t have to look any further than Perez Hilton to know that this works. After doing this for a couple of weeks, I felt cheap. I felt like I was lowering myself to the level of a Kardashian or a Hilton or a Lohan. I started adding names like Bieber. I don’t even know what he’s famous for. And you know what? I still don’t. Then one day my nephew, Mike Tortorich, a real writer who helps me find and place pictures for my blog asked me which celebrity to put in for a post. Here’s what I said to him: I want a celebrity who’s never taken it up the ass from an athlete. I want a celebrity who’s not famous for her grandfather’s hotels. I certainly didn’t want one more famous for drug use than acting. My nephew said in a laughing manner, “Well, who’s left?” Without taking a breath, I said, “Sophia Loren, that’s who’s left.”

Who is Sophia Loren? She’s an Italian actress who had every reason to go nowhere in life. Her father wasn’t in her life. Her mother moved her near Naples to be close to family. I’ve been to Naples, and trust me when I tell you it’s the armpit of the world. I can only imagine how bad it was during World War II. It’s been said that a young Sophia Loren took shrapnel to the face during a raid. She started her career as an actress doing Italian films, then crossing over into American cinema. She became a star. Let me tell you some things Sophia Loren has never done. She’s never exposed her crotch getting out of a limo. She’s never been in rehab. She’s never gone to jail. She’s never appeared before a judge. And she’s never had fake tits. The woman has been a star for the better part of 60 years of her life. She was married to the great Carlo Ponti until his death. She’s raised two sons who are both successful. And has been a Goodwill Ambassador. That’s why I love Sophia Loren. I have a feeling that other people love her too. Sometimes when we forget to put her picture on the blog we get comments from both men and women asking one simple question: Where’s Sophia? If anyone has any interest in me putting up a piece of my galley, leave comments or contact me on Facebook. If the interest is great enough, I will run it.