Scott Martin

There's a cookie in my desk drawer. I'm not going to eat it.

It's pretty healthy as cookies go: oatmeal/raisin with whole grains and flax seeds. Only 130 calories and 5 grams of fat, the label says. I'm still not going to eat it.

Even though I'm kind of hungry. Okay, so hungry that if I don't eat this cookie, I'll start licking the glue off my Post-it notes. But I am not... going to... eat... that... cookie.

Why? Because one of my clubmates circulated an e-mail about the effects of weight on cycling performance. For every pound lost, you can climb 5-6 seconds faster on a 3-mile hill without -- here's the crucial part -- doing any more stupid intervals. (I don't think "stupid" was in the original e-mail.)

I've known for years about cycling's merciless power-to-weight ratio, but somehow this latest factoid hit me square in the, uh, gut. If I can just shed a few pounds, I'll climb like I have Dr. Fuentes on speed-dial.

So that's why I'm going all supermodel, minus the looks, fame, wealth, entourage and stalkers.

I weighed myself last Saturday morning, before the biannual club workout to test our wattage output. The less you weigh, the better your all-important watts-per-kilogram number will be. (Speaking of which, I much prefer to weigh 58 kilograms rather than 128 pounds.)

So I step on the scale. No change since yesterday. I clip my fingernails, blow my nose, and move the scale to that spot in the corner where it always seems to register a lower number. Back on the scale: I've gained a pound.

The injustice ! I need a cookie. I know just where to look.

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