I’ve always hated writing bios for myself. It’s difficult not to sound conceited. As such, I’ve recruited a monkey named Samuel to write mine. Samuel says,
“A bio? For what, that blog of his? Oh, ok. What can I say about Eli? Well if you’re here, chances are you know about his bike racing. He’s pretty obsessive about it. He’s out riding more often than not. He calls it “training” but he’s really just out there riding his bike. A lot. 5 or 6 times a week.
He races for this team who wears bright pink. I mean REALLY bright pink. If you go to any of the local races, it’s harder to miss them than it is to spot them. They’re called Chimps in Training presented by Talent Cycles. They started this year, in 2014. Basically, just a bunch of friends who wanted to wear pink and ride together.
Wow, I’ve certainly surprised myself with how much I know about his stupid team. He’s a Category 3 (out of 5) in the races and it’s no secret that he’s the fastest 3 around. Everyone knows it. Everyone wants to be in his breaks. You can tell because when he attacks, the entire field goes with him. It’s quite sad actually; the result is that none of his attacks stick.
Outside of bike racing, he doesn’t really have many redeeming qualities. He can write. Boy can he write. He writes his butt off. And he can recover. Like any talented cyclist, he’s very good at sitting around and doing nothing. He calls it “recovery” but don’t be fooled. Recovery and eating a lot. Those have to be his favorite things to do off the bike.”
This is my blog. It’s about bike racing.
My twitter handle is @ChimpsNtraining, if you’d like to follow me. Be warned though: Twitter is mostly full of my auto-updates. On instagram, where I’m more active, you can follow me personally at @spiritofe and the team at @ChimpsinTraining.
Here’s something I wrote about what the life of a bike racer is like:
I blink once. Twice. It’s still dark out. I rub my eyes and yawn, swinging my tired legs over the side of the bed where they grope for leather sandals. In the dark. At last they find them as I make my way to the washroom down the hall to handle my business. I grab my bibs on the way, along with my heart rate monitor, a jersey, socks and some chamois cream. The bibs reach the same place every time – razor sharp lines are etched into my heavily defined legs to indicate as much. The chamois cream is becoming less and less effective as I spend increasing amounts of time searching for an affordable pair of adequately-padded bibs. The jersey doesn’t zip all the way – the muscles in my neck gained during close to 10 years of wrestling cling like a newborn koala. I finish getting dressed and affix the remaining accoutrements – sunglasses, a cap, a helmet, some carbon-soled obnoxiously-loud shoes. I grab The Black Widow by the saddle and guide her through the door as the world begins to radiate pink. I raise my hands above my head and arch my back. The road is my burrito.