Vinnie Tortorich

Guest blogging today is one of my riding buddies Steve Gruman. – Vinnie

Once in a while you get shown the light, in the strangest of places if you look at it right. – Robert Hunter

“Oh Miss Crabtree, there’s something heavy on my heart.” Having navigated my first 52 years to my general satisfaction, I can pretty much attribute most of what I’ve learned to the Little Rascals, not least of which is a sometime fondness for older women. Now into my next half-century, I’ve come to realize where Chubsy, Spanky, and Alfalfa left off, my buddy Vinnie has picked up with uncanny seamlessness. Not unlike the lifelong influence of a ragtag group of television’s holy misfits, Vinnie has imparted some life-changing knowledge one could only expect from, dare I say, a buddha. Or perhaps, this Mulholland Moses, who has been dragging a small, lost tribe of the chosen through the canyons and hills of the Malibu badlands for over a decade, provides guidance in the quest for ever-greater wisdom and the ultimate meaning of Yogi Berra. With newly found knowledge and a revived approach to life, I can now continue my journey with a deeper sense of confidence, comfort, clarity, direction, strength, and a painful perineum. I told you that to tell you this — here, in my humblest words, is my attempt to share some of the unique wisdom I’ve gained from this bayou medicine man:

• Chamois butter is a life-saver, particularly good on toast after a brutal ride.
• Although cycling over 100 miles in triple digit heat usually won’t make headlines, you can always fool yourself into thinking that someone else might give a shit about all those wasted Saturdays.
• Peeing while sitting (on your bike) is manly.
• Never borrow a bike.
• Shaving your legs is especially manly.
• Waxing your underarms is not, but helpful for climbing.
• When in doubt, always ask yourself, “What would Fausto Coppi do?”
• Chianti in every other bottle will get you through most rides with dopey friends.
• Ginger is no Mary Ann.
• Sophia Loren is a better ride than Pamela Anderson.
• Fuck/Marry/Kill (for the first time) is good for a couple of hours after heat exhaustion.
• The second time is akin to suffering through Robin Williams’ standup act.
• An iceberg wedge and blue cheese along with a cold Guinness is the best secret for muscle recovery.
• Besides our own girlfriends, Paul Rudd’s girlfriend in Dinner For Schmucks may just be the perfect woman.
• Southern rock has always sucked (it’s a fact; learned BVE)
• Suffering enough on the bike results in automatic conversion to Catholicism.
• Complaining enough on the bike is a reminder of why you’re not at Shabbat services.
• Hydration is next to godliness.
• Nietzsche never understood why he developed terrible quad cramps on tough rides.
• A bad day on the bike is better than a good day on the water board (some would disagree).
• Vinnie’s like our very own Maury Wills; “let’s ride another six hours!” And as complete morons, “OK”
• Kris Kristofferson popularized American cycling in the sixties when he wrote the lyric, “Riding’s just another thing when nothing’s left to do.”
• The idea of four idiots racing through the hot desert for over 500 miles may be as foolish as it sounds. Or not – we’ll let you know.

I told you that to tell you this (can I use this again?). You should be OK through the next fifty years or so, but not to worry; there’s always Spanky and the boys to illuminate the path. But I digress.

“In days of old, when knights were bold,
And journeyed from their castles,
Trusty men were left behind;
Knights needed not the hassles.
They helped themselves to pig and peach,
And drank from King’s own chalice;
Oh, it was a stirring sight,
These gypsies in the palace.”

– Jimmy Buffett

My life is kind of strange. I’m a poor man living in a rich man’s world. When I say poor, I don’t mean living in a box under the freeway or even lower-income poor. According to the amount of money I make per year, I guess you can say I’m middle class, even though economists will tell you that doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe I’m the last one. The people I work with are not middle class. They are at the upper end of the wealth scale. They can afford cars that cost more than any house I could afford. Some of them even have private jets. Many of them have second and third homes around the country and the world. It would stand to reason that every summer these people would take off and go live in one of their other homes. Some of my clients do quite well with keeping up their workout by checking in with me on a daily or weekly basis. Others hire trainers and dietitians to keep them honest where ever they are. I applaud this. But others take vacation in the literal sense, and they vacate physically and mentally. I told you that to tell you this. There is one particular client who I love dearly. She has an eating disorder. This type of psychological warfare is far beyond anything I do. Unlike the Jillian Michaels types of the world, I understand that you can’t just yell at a fat person to get into shape. It just doesn’t work that way. After all, these people know they are fat. They have eyes and mirrors. They know. After working with them for all of these years, I don’t know a one of them that wants to be that way. They struggle every day. You know what? I struggle with them. If they fail, I feel like I fail. Not just as a trainer or a professional, but as a human being. I’ve often said I’d do this job for free if I could afford to. I can’t, and I don’t. But I digress. One of the problems this client has, beside an eating disorder, is that she loves the “magic bullet” approach. She’s gone through every diet you can possibly think of. You know the ones. Eat cabbage soup broth on Monday only, eggs Tuesday and drink the piss of a pregnant rabbit Wednesday. Yes, she goes on these diets regularly. Like most people, she loses a few pounds, but gains it back in spades. I had one question for her over coffee this morning, “When did it happen?” She knew what I was talking about. When she left in May, she was in great shape. She said it happened around her birthday. She was in a hotel. She was upset about something and went for the mini bar. She said she ate everything in there, and that was the beginning of a three-month rampage while vacationing. My friend and client said something to me that I had never heard before. She had joined O.A. (Overeaters Anonymous). I was happy for my friend. I think for the first time in her life, she is on the right track with her eating. If you feel like you are one of these people, or know someone who could use help, here is a link to O.A.

“Take me to the river, drop me in the water.” – Al Green

I have a friend, and I’ve talked about him on this site before. His name is Steve. He’s a pretty smart guy, maybe one of the smartest guys I know. I’ve been known to go to Steve when I can’t figure out something on my own. He always seems to be the voice of reason. When it comes to fitness, he generally takes my advice. There’s only one area where he failed miserably. I mean when it comes to riding the bike and being properly hydrated. Filling bottles for him seemed to be an afterthought. At times, he didn’t even have bottles. There was another problem. He would get severe leg cramps on almost every ride. It was so consistent that I had a running bet with our third riding partner, Jonathan, as to when Steve would cramp up. Jonathan and I would consider the weather and the amount of climbing, then decide on a number. It was always between 35 and 45, which meant miles. If Jonathan went with 35, I would usually go with 36. I figured if he got close to that number, I could coax him into another mile. These cramps were like watching the engine seize up on a car. When I would tell Steve to drink more water and put some electrolytes in it, he would shrug it off and say, “This has to be something else, these cramps are bad.” And year in and year out, the cramps would come. Steve tried to blame it on everything, like he only rides every other weekend and maybe he needed more potassium. He eats a balanced diet and takes vitamins. I knew the only culprit was water. For whatever reason, Steve decided at some point to carry more water on his bike and to use electrolytes. Since he started this practice earlier this summer, I’ve only seen him cramp once and it wasn’t that bad. He worked his way through it. The only thing he does that is different is he drinks more water and puts electrolytes in it. I told you that to tell you this. Steve only suffered cramps on his rides. If he had gone any further, he would have suffered dehydration. If you dehydrate, you can become sick, and there is no way to battle back. If you are in a race, you’re done. Drink early and often, and have electrolytes. I guess it is a good time to bring up what electrolytes are. That sport drink that you think is good for you – Gatorade, Powerade and the like – is crap. Those products are nothing more than sugar bombs. They should call those products “Decelerade.” To get good electrolytes, you can take it in two forms. Most companies make a capsule. These are good because you can measure exactly how much you are taking. The only problem is you have to stop when you are on the move to take them. I much prefer the ones you can put right in your water bottle. Hammer Nutrition and Lava Salt make a powder you can put into your bottle. A couple of companies I like make a product that comes in a fizzy tablet you can drop into your bottle. One is called Nuun, another is Elixir. All of these products will help your muscles hang on to water longer and replace the electrolytes lost through sweat. How well does this work? After 110 miles of riding with tons of climbing a couple of weeks ago, Steve said, “You know what, I think I got another 50 in me.”

“It’s a man’s world.” – James Brown

When I was a kid, I was in New Orleans with my dad one day. We walked into the Acme Oyster House, just off of Bourbon Street. Their tagline was, “Best Oysters Ever.” I guess they didn’t know who they were dealing with when my skinny 10-year-old butt walked in. Why? My mom’s side of the family was from a small fishing community in Calabria, Italy. When they moved to the United States, they continued fishing and had an oyster shop in an area of the town I grew up in called “Froggymo.” It was called this because it was on the edge of town and you could hear bullfrogs chirping every night. It’s where most of the Italians lived in the largely Cajun town. My Papa Tripode could open a dozen oysters quicker than I could open a jar of peanut butter. The Acme Oyster House had big shoes to fill that day. Although I enjoyed the oysters, I learned a valuable lesson in life. Just because someone says they’re the best, doesn’t make them the best. I told you that to tell you this. Almost 20 years ago today on September 17, 1990, a woman named Lisa Olson was sexually harassed in the New England Patriots locker room. I’m not here to pass judgment, I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what happened. Suffice it to say, if you walk into an NFL locker room after a game, expect to see more swinging cocks than you would at a West Hollywood bath house on a Saturday night.

I remember my own football days at Tulane back in the early 1980s. We were too tired and too beat up to go diving into lockers every time a woman walked in. You get what you pay for in those situations. Here we are 20 years later.

Now we’re faced with a girl who literally calls herself the “Hottest Sports Reporter in Mexico,” also known as Ines Sainz. If I may digress for just a moment, she ain’t that hot. She’s more like the chick who hangs out with the hot chick. She’s the one who’s easy pickings at around 2 a.m., just before closing time.

Let’s face it, Hannah Storm is hotter. In my opinion, her 15 minutes were up 20 minutes ago. The big question is, was this girl sexually harassed or is this more of her get-more-attention campaign?

Did she just pull a page from the Erin Andrews playbook? Remember her? She’s the one who claimed she was videotaped through a hotel peephole. Let’s face it, she was hitting her marks pretty well to be shot through a peephole. Hollywood couldn’t get those pictures with a three-camera shoot. Once again, I digress. If Miss Sainz was harassed, I applaud the NFL for investigating. But if it’s determined that she wasn’t, I say she has to pay retribution. I for one am sick and tired of semi-hot chicks using their looks as a career move.

“I wept because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.” – Author unknown

I spend a lot of time looking at running shoes. I don’t mean looking at them in the store. I’m talking about looking at them on people’s feet. And in some cases, when they’re off of their feet. I study running shoes the way theologians study the Bible. I learn a lot from these shoes. For example, sometimes when I have clients running on treadmills, I stand directly behind them and watch as their feet strike the belt. I also watch directly in front and from the side as they do the same thing. I’m not a big fan of running shoes. I think they have too much cushion. If our bodies needed that much cushion to run, there would already be more cushion between the knees, ankles and hips. We have what we need. We don’t need help from Nike, who invented the jogging shoe. By the way, if you want to read about this, pick up Christopher McDougall’s book Born to Run. He spells it out in an easy and fun way. But I digress.

The reason I watch these shoes so closely is because over the years I’ve made a direct correlation between sneakers and running injuries. I’m going to say here that this is not an exact science. Some people do quite well with worn out running shoes. And then develop an injury when they get a new pair. Again, more reason not to have one inch of cushion under your heel. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I run in what’s called running flats. They generally have an eighth to a quarter of an inch of cushioning and work just fine. I told you that to tell you this. I have one client who seems to want to change his shoes quicker than anyone else. The guy is worth a ton of money. Shoes are not an issue for him. I couldn’t help but notice that every two to three weeks he had a brand new pair of running shoes. I finally asked him what he did with the old ones. He said he simply throws them away. When I mentioned to him that there were shoe programs that give the shoes to people with great need, he looked at me and said, “No, not these shoes, I couldn’t do that to someone else.” It turns out my client had a foot odor problem. I taught him a little trick I’d like to share today. If your shoes are brand new and you use a small bit of medicated foot powder every time you get ready to exercise, they may never build up enough bacteria to cause them to stink. But let’s just say you are the guy with industrial strength foot odor. The best and cheapest way I’ve found to get rid of it is by washing in a washing machine and allowing to dry naturally. Then take about 20 ounces of rubbing alcohol and pour 10 ounces into each shoe. Also cover the outside and the toe box area. Again, let it dry naturally over night. By adding medicated foot powder after that, you should be fine. My favorite powder is Ammens. If you have trouble finding it in your area, try Gold Bond. By the way, both are available through Amazon (see the links).

“Am I gaining ground, am I losing face, have I lost and found my saving grace?” – Everlast, “Saving Grace”

What the eff is wrong with people? About two weeks ago I did something that I had never done before in my 47 years. I stupidly left my wallet on the roof of my car while I was filling up with gas. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized my wallet was missing. Without hesitation, I got back in my car and back-tracked. At 9:30 p.m., in the dark, I found my wallet on the road. I had only been separated from my wallet for 20 minutes. Luckily, my identification and credit cards were still there. What was missing was the $500 in cash that was going into my checking account the next day. It was supposed to pay the most important bill that I get…my health insurance. In a related story, I woke this morning to find that someone hacked into my computer to use my friends to solicit for a bogus drug company. If I could find these people, I would kick them in the nuts. And I’m not talking figuratively, I would actually kick them in the nuts. If they’re women, I would kick their fathers in the nuts for raising such a scumbag. I told you that to tell you this.

In 1980, Rosie Ruiz won the Boston Marathon. It appeared that she didn’t read her entry packet that probably mentioned you’re supposed to run the 26.21875 miles. Miss Ruiz decided to take the bus. The biggest tragedy here is the real winner, Jacqueline Gareau, received her first-place award a day later in a closed room, never standing on a podium and getting her true recognition. In 1998, the Festina Affair and the doping allegations almost ended the Tour de France. Few remember that Marco Pantani won that year because the cheaters got more recognition. In 2006, Operación Puerto became the hottest topic in cycling. It was a complicated blood-doping scheme where tons of athletes blood were discovered in coolers, meant to be used for cheating at a later date. How would you like to be the guy in charge of keeping that straight? Then there are idiots like Roger Clemens, who not only cheated but exacerbated his problems by lying to Congress. What do all of these people have in common? They are all talented people who could have been great champions on their own without cheating. In my meager estimation, if they would have spent the same time training and working hard as they did in putting together a scheme, they could have still been successful.