The ever-readable Mike Ferrentino has a meditation on “garbage miles” in his “Beggars Would Ride” column over at NSMB.com.
No spoilers. Pop over and have a squint. I will say only that his thoughts on the topic have evolved over the decades, because he is mos def one of the higher primates.
Photo by Larry Beckner | The New Mexican
I first encountered the concept of garbage miles back in the Eighties, while racing bikes out of Fanta Se. Logging a ton of miles I was, and getting ruthlessly flogged on race day by people doing half my weekly average, or less.
“The fuck?” I inquired.
“Too many junk miles,” they replied.
Junk miles, garbage miles, all samey same. Unfocused and thus unworthy. Or so they said, the rotten, podium-hogging sonsabitches.
But not me. Because whenever I was in the saddle spinning I was not parked at the The New Mexican‘s copy desk, where I had to log many junk miles indeed to underwrite my cycling habit. Many, many of them.
At least the bike miles, like crucifixion, got me out in the open air.
Once we moved to Bibleburg in fall 1991 I kept it up. The Sept. 15 entry in my training journal after a 157.5-mile week was: “A few respectable miles. Nice to not work — nothing like a job for fucking up your training.”
“Training,” he calls it. This is the hee, and also the haw. Oh, I was riding on road and off, first with Rainbow Racing, then later with the Mad Dogs. And I was running regularly, even doing a little inline skating and snowshoeing because I was freelancing pieces to a sports-and-fitness outfit in Boulder between my chores for VeloNews (see, I was actually trying to work and earn, kinda, sorta).
But at my first few Colorado cyclocrosses I was either OTB or DFL, eventually settling into a fairly reliable fourth-place kind of fella, out of the money yet very much in the way. Seventh of 11 finishers at the state championships at Chatfield State Park that year, after which I called it a season.
Too many junk miles. Garbage miles. Whatevs.
Oh, I got better. Or maybe they got worse, as one of the fast guys mused in my presence after I finally managed to finish a race in front of him. In any case, by the mid-Nineties I could podium at a ’cross every now and then, even win, rarely, if the weather got truly evil and the fast guys stayed home.
This could’ve been because I actually trained for cyclocross, which by this time was the only cycling discipline I really cared about.
I worked on technique, ran a ton to counter my lack of snap in the saddle, and even built my own course at altitude (at the base of our 43-acre plot at 8,800 feet outside Weirdcliffe in CrustyTucky).
During the seven years we lived there I rode a ’cross bike just about everywhere, because pavement was miles away and when I finally got to it I didn’t want to be herding the old mountain bike with its 26-inch knobbies and boingy fork. Though I missed its 24-tooth granny ring while cursing my way up the long dirt mile back to the house, 430 feet up from the washboarded county road.
Not a lot of junk miles in CrustyTucky.
In those years I logged my junk miles behind the wheel of a Toyota pickup, with my bikes in the bed. Our Mad Dog cyclocrosses were in B-burg, a 150-mile round trip from home base. The bulk of the state race series meant an even longer slog up the Front Strange, to Littleton, Denver, Franktown, Boulder, Mead, and Fort Collins. The weather was frequently wintry, masters were always first to race, and more than once to make the start I had to hit town the day before, overnighting in some low-rent motel.
Talk about your junk miles.
After a few years of that my training logs crumbled into random entries followed by none at all. It was starting to feel a whole lot like work — which was also suffering in part because the cycling community in CrustyTucky consisted of me, myself and I. It felt like being sentenced to Stationary Trainer Without Parole. I was taking all the pulls and yet going nowhere. In terms of fiscal and mental health it seemed prudent to seek out a few voices that weren’t coming from inside my head.
In those first years back in Bibleburg I had a good crew. Quite a few of the Mad Dogs owned the clocks we punched and could rearrange at least one business day a week to log junk miles and devise solutions to the various crises facing the world (you’re welcome). Big Bill “Shut Up and Ride” McBeef and his bro Other Bill. Usuk and The Geek. Dr. Schenkstein and Dennis the Menace. The Old Town Bike Shop crew. And the rest of you lot; you know who you are. So in 2002 we went back there.
Took me right back to my riding roots it did. I no longer felt as though everything was uphill and into the wind in all directions. A couple years later I quit racing because I didn’t need it anymore. I had my junk miles. Garbage miles. Whatevs.
Some dogs just gotta tip over that trash can.
Mad Blog Media 
Ahh, a refreshing bit of cycling to read rather than yet more agonizing over the shitty state of the nation. As Bruce Cockburn once sang, “open up the windows and let the bad air out”
Yes, garbage miles. I was piling up tons of those miles back in Honolulu, but it was all back and forth to work, which on a slow week, was 6 1/2 days at the University, trying to keep the grant funds rolling in, as half my salary depended on “soft money”. Time trialing back and forth to the university, up to 25 miles a day. So weekends were fun miles, not training. And pretty soon, the choice of going off the back when everyone else accelerated made “racing” look hopeless. So I stopped pinning on race numbers. Just century rides, etc. Never looked back.
Yeh, I gotta take five from the Chicken Little bit now and then. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. If I’m not careful Piggy will put the pork to my sensitive personality.
Meanwhile, an exorcist fails to drive Kristi Noem from the body politic.
Sorry, couldn’t help myself.
Patrick,
I feel lucky to say I shared many of those rides with you and some of the others you mentioned, back in the ‘burg
There’s no such thing as garbage miles when you’re not racing. Besides, why race what you can’t replace?
Since covid in 2020 I’ve put the following miles on my bikes:
2025 – 8k
2024 – 10k+
2023 – 10k+
2022 – 8.6k
2021 – 8.4k
2020 – 7.9k
I admit I’m very fortunate to have a much stronger, better half who continues to kick my ass when we ride together. And she’s still racing 70.3’s
Keep the rubber side down
Michael P
Make It a Great Day,
Michael
+1-971-570-1960
( ) / ( )
Them was the days, hey? And you’re still smokin’! I only manage about 4K per annum.
I used to keep track of my running mileage, but that’s less and less a part of the program anymore. Once, twice a week, depending on the time of year, and never anything more daring than a leisurely 5K trail run. Just trying to keep the muscle memory alive in case ICE turns up, looking to ship me back to County Clare.
How’s the weather out there? The PNW is getting hammered, yeah? Here’s hoping you don’t have to add open-water swimming to your exercise regimen.
Only 4k? Slacker. Garbage miles? Eddy said “ride lots.” You guys are riding lots.
10k+ is at least 27 miles a day, every single day of the year. Eddy would be proud.
The atmospheric river in the PNW has made it unseasonably warmer, but unrelenting. The local meteorologist said we’re flirting with the latest start to a ski season opening on Record at Mt Hood. It currently stands at December 22nd. Mother nature fooled me one day this week when it said dry in the afternoon, but then “Lucy Van Pelt” pulled the football away when I went to kick it. I had to ride in it because I rode to work in a light mist in the morning.
~27 miles a day eh? That sounds about right. Yesterday was actually a dry commute to and from work on my bike. My commute can be as short as a quick 10 mile roundtrip, if preferred, or as long as I want, usually no more than 25miles round trip. Rarely do I extend my morning ride beyond a circuitous 10 miles going . . . I do actually have to get to work . . . eventually, although I dawdle to say the least. My commute at the end of the day can be up to a 15 miler provided I leave the orifice at a reasonable time. Don’t want the man to tap me fully of my life’s blood although he’s gotten close more often than I’d like to admit.
During the shorter days this time of year, especially when Vitamin D deficiency is at it’s highest, the majority of my riding is on a 40 year old set of Kreitler rollers. I haven’t paid Zwift, Rouvy, PS5, Nintendo or any other virtual video game a dime . . . Yet. On the weekends me and the missus keep an eye on the doppler watching for a small window to sneak outside if we can. Otherwise it’s back to the Kreitlers and a college football to distract me from the pain and inevitable eff-Bombs that are certainly abundant. I’ve ridden up to a metric century a few times on the rollers, but I don’t make it a habit, and my wife probably would prefer that I not pee while still riding in the living room. Why not hun? I’m sure the dog wouldn’t mind
Even though I’m lit up like a Christmas decoration with reflectivity and lights all around, I’m sure when the day comes the eejit will say “I didn’t see him” although their head will have actually been buried in their handheld as they swipe left and right looking for a double-date for Rosie Palm and her five sisters.
My daily commuter is a Lynskey GR300 Ti gravel with a set of plush 40mm Panaracer Gravel King tubeless tyres to cushion the blow of Beaverton’s pockmarked roads. My forward-facing lights consist of a Light & Motion . . . may they RIP . . . Urban 1000 rechargeable light attached to my handlebars and a rechargeable Vis 360 Pro attached to my helmet. There is a Garmin Varia with it’s radar capabilities hitched under my 1990’s era Selle Italia Flite saddle and a rechargeable Light & Motion Vis180 is attached to my Osprey Synchro20 commuter backpack. I jettisoned the hydration system’s reservoir to allow room for my MacBook Air which stays at the office most nights. I haul my lunch from home and my clothes for the day. Since I work in the footwear biz, I have shoes a-plenty at the office to rotate therefore no additional weight to carry there. Just the hauling of the extra el-bees I accumulate from all of my snacking
A very good friend recommended the Light & Motion combination several years back when my wife and I were commuting together daily to the company with the Big “Check Mark” logo. Right up until the world shut down in 2020 as the plague hit. He had used the same combination for his daily commute when living in Amsterdam
As far as reflectivity I have reflective tape on my rear fenders, the back of my helmet and an amazing Showers Pass commuter jacket. It’s like their Elite Jacket on Steroids. I believe when I bought it for less than a nice crisp new Benjamin at their annual garage sale in 2024 the Product Line Manager told me that its profit margin was so low they would be practically giving it away so it never went to market. It’s actually waterproof too since it was made before the late-comers in the US apparel industry really cracked down on the PFAS-free initiative, which I am fully in support of. The tail of the jacket, which hangs below my backpack, is fully reflective. My thermal Castelli bibs have high viz reflective panels on each calf and my hands are donned with Pactimo WX-D gloves which have high viz panels.
Michael
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Good for you! Impressive is what, and I assumed rollers or a trainer and commuting to work were factors. Down here in SE Arizona weather is not normally a problem, so I never owned a trainer. My commuter was a Cannondale hybrid with a a rack and variety of trunks to carry the days supplies. When I got my own office I could stash the work clothes for a week in it then drive on Friday to switch in a fresh set. When I got close to retirement and going on more business trips the commuting slowed. But, Sandy would drop me and the mountain bike off in the morning, and I would ride home via Garden Canyon. She would meet me up there on her bike and adventures did happen some times. The best riding year after retirement was 2400 miles, mostly on trails and forest service roads as part of camping trips to favorite riding spots like Williams AZ. Road cycling was mostly early morning rides on weekends. In later years I did get to ride with Patrick, Khal, and Herb. No riding in the past 5 years due to the fear creeping in plus an obsession with guitars. I hope the atmospheric rivers give you a break. Keep rolling!
Pro setup there, bruh. Well done indeed.
I mostly drove to my newspaper jobs. After wrecking my Chevy I walked or rode the Schwinn to the Colorado Springs Sun, where I was a copy boy. As a cub reporter with a freshly minted driver’s license I drove to the Gazette Telegraph, because a reporter might be sent anywhere on short notice. Later, as a copy editor, I occasionally rode the Schwinn, but not often. Copy editors at morning papers worked the night shift; only once did I work for an afternoon rag.
In Tucson, I was a 20-minute drive at minimum in heavy traffic on bad roads from The Arizona Daily Star. No way was I riding a bicycle there. I was a swimmer during my short stint in Tucson.
At the Corvallis Gazette-Times in Oregon I lived within walking distance of the paper, which was a nice change of pace. But once I moved to The Pueblo Chieftain, and later to the weekly Sentinels chain in the north-Denver metro, I was back behind the wheel for commuting and cycling for recreation and exercise.
At my last paper, The New Mexican in Fanta Se, I was back within walking distance from home once I moved to The City Difficult from Española (“Gateway to the Penitentiary of New Mexico”). I rode to work now and then, but always got an earful from the publisher about parking my bike in the newsroom. As if I was going to leave it outside. The thieves in that town could lift the bike from your roof rack while you were driving the car.
I won’t disclose my current yearly cycling mileage lest the manufacturers come and take back their bikes and fine me for malfeasance. But I’ll take some points for using the mini-fleet for running errands and parking the car. In the WAY back times I foolishly lived 24 miles from work with no car. And a roommate with an early Datsun that either ran or…..didn’t. So many a 50 mile round trip bike commute while fearing Michigan’s temperamental weather. With all those bike miles piling up, I thought I’d kill it when entering a few local races. Damn…turns out you have to have speed AND bike handling skills of which I had neither.
One shouldn’t worry about yearly cycling miles, when they own a Three Stooges jersey! Being the coolest rider on the Paseo del Bosque is worth at least 5K miles, heh you hoser? A “Strange Brew” jersey would be the bomb, I think.
I rode to and from school and wherever else I needed to go from when I was but a Mad Pup until I finally graduated from college, but didn’t take up bike racing until I was 33, the same age as Jesus when he took up crucifixion.
The bulk of the racing was crits, and man, did I ever suck at those. No speed, no skills, no trust in adhesion at velocity, especially in corners and/or on descents. Not a good fit for a dude with bad health insurance (and occasionally none at all).
Cyclocross suited me because the fields were smaller and the average speed slower. Plus if you augured in there was usually a mud puddle or snowbank to cushion the blow. If anything terrified me I got off and ran.
Then the fast dudes discovered ’cross, courses shed the jungle bits — water crossings, climb-ups, etc. — and that was pretty much that for Your Humble Narrator, who had a very narrow window to victory. More of a porthole, actually. Maybe a keyhole.
“… but didn’t take up bike racing until I was 33, the same age as Jesus when he took up crucifixion.”
Ha!
Reminds me of hearing Martin Mull interviewed on the radio in the 1970s. He said he had just turned 33 and was expecting a big year, just like Jesus and Buddha.
Ol’ Martin was a giggle, wasn’t he? His run was pretty much a match for the Buddha’s, too.
Speaking of Strange Brews Pat…
Have you ever had a beer go from first taste of “dirty socks” to wonderfully good? I’m not talking about after 5 or 6 of them when you are stewed and could be drinking cleaning products for all you know. I was quaffing a Great Lakes (Cleveland) Edmund Fitzgerald Porter yesterday. After the first sip I thought” Damnit! I have a whole six-pack of this. I’ll have to pawn it off on guests.” But after the third tasting I thought “Jeezus this might be the best porter I’ve had in a long while”.
Maybe it took a bit to fire up dormant taste buds? Or there was still some remnants of mincemeat pie holed up in my recessing gums that needed flushing? FIIK….
Anyway…the guests can BYO unless they want some Founder’s Pilsner that somehow is multiplying in the basement fridge. I swear everytime I open the door there’s more of em.
Yes, I have, and it was just lately. It was a Four Peaks Brewing Golden Lager, a helles style lager. It gave me a buttery taste and mouth feel up front for just a second. That is usually a warning sign of a very stale or badly made beer. But, it was quickly replaced by a slightly sweet and hoppy taste that lingered. After that it was all good, and I continue to buy it. Also, I bought some Sam Adam’s Octoberfest yesterday. Like you said, they must have gone back to their original recipe because it is a good Octoberfest beer this season.
Loved the cycling pics of POG in action. The auld fellow ain’t too far off now from his former looks sans some hair.
Ho ho. A thousand miles of bad road never gets any prettier.