Winter for pro cyclists means base training. As they do in running, most coaches prescribe LSD (that's long, slow distance; what did you think it stood for?). I've been doing some of that, but I'm also devoting a few weeks to gym work.

Road cycling is low impact (if you're lucky), so bone density can suffer if you're not careful, and there have been a few cases of pros getting osteoporosis in their 20s. I cracked a rib this year in a low-speed crash, which got me a little worried about the old skeleton. Do you know what they tell you when you break a rib during a five-day stage race?

Keep racing. It just hurts horribly for a few weeks when you cough, laugh or breathe, but it won't slow you down.

Keep walking, dude. The little pink ones are at the very end. Courtesy Phil Gaimon

I don't want to go through that again, so I negotiated a discounted gym membership, assuring the owner that I wouldn't set foot in his establishment during my race season of February to October and I'd be a sucker to pay for a full year. I mostly stick to the legs and core, because arm muscles are just extra weight that girls like.

I'm probably building a few muscles along with the bones, and I've come to love the steady progress in the gym: The first week I was sore from squatting the bar, but now I'm throwing around 200 pounds, no problem. On the bike, if you improve your power from 360 watts to 375 over a year, that's pretty good.

I could use a non-cyclist to help me out at the gym, though. I have trouble lifting all those 45-pound plates onto the leg press.

European pros don't have time to haggle with gym owners because they're all having their winter training camps, which means doing something that looks epic for 10 minutes, then posing for photos for an hour. Team Saxo Bank climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, and Cannondale-Garmin went sailing, for example. They'll do some exercise and a couple of team-building activities, but winter camp for them mostly means PowerPoint lectures from sponsors, physicals from team doctors, team photos for media, that sort of thing.

Of course, it's not cycling if there's no doping scandal. According to accusations reported in La Gazzetta, an Italian newspaper, winter camp for team Astana last year included meetings with notorious (and banned) doctor Michele Ferrari, known for his role in Lance Armstrong's success and for his funny name (insert joke here about how his riders have V-12s, or how they must have gone to Dr. Fiat).

Of course, the riders insist that they were only seeing Ferrari for training or health advice, and the team denies 1990s-style organized doping. Personally, I wouldn't let Dr. Ferrari look at an ingrown toenail.

It was rumored that Astana might lose its team license over the scandal, but the rulebooks don't really have a clause for that, so if the governing bodies kicked the team out there'd be a lawsuit and Astana would win. Basically, if it really did have a doping program, it's pretty much getting away with it at this point.

This all makes cycling seem dirty, but the truth is that ours is one of the first sports to really try being drug-free, and it's turned out to be more difficult than expected. I wouldn't be surprised if pro soccer or football leagues have had board meetings where someone suggests getting the drug abuse to stop, and everyone else nails him with the gold-plated pens they bought at the duty-free store.

Are you crazy? Look what happened when they tried that in cycling!

It's nice riding with the kids, but I was disappointed with the draft. Courtesy of Phil Gaimon

Optum, my new team, is so clean we don't even have a winter meeting. We're free to do as we please until camp in January. I took the free time to spend a weekend in Florida for Everyone Rides, an event in South Florida benefiting the Boys & Girls Clubs. They invite a handful of past and present pros to ride with the locals, so I got to catch up with three-time Tour de France-winner Greg LeMond, nine-time Tour finisher Frankie Andreu, and old teammates Brad Huff, Isaac Howe and Bobby Sweeting.

I had dinner with Frankie at a French-American fusion restaurant, which just means they have American burgers fused with bad service. The chef argued when my fiancée ordered her burger medium-well and threatened to kick her out when she jokingly asked for ketchup. I can't take her anywhere. When he brought the bill, he noticed Frankie's Tour de France shirt and asked where he got it. Frankie's a humble man, so I told the chef who he had the honor of serving (hoping to score a free dessert, which was cookies served rudely).

The actual ride started at 7:30 the next morning (which felt like 4:30 to me), so I slept through the 100-mile start and arrived just in time to cruise 30 miles with a group of kids, which was better for everyone, except the other pro ride leaders who rolled in hours later, sweaty, tired and not too happy with me. Suckers.

The following day, to make up for lost training, I did the local group ride. You know when you get stuck in traffic behind a giant pack of cyclists going hard as hell, early in the morning or just before dark? That's probably a group ride. It's half training ride with your friends and half race, but it's popular in cities where you need safety in numbers.

Normally, I can manhandle any group ride. After all, I've been training full time for five years now, and these folks are just riding before work. With the warm winter in Florida, they don't take an offseason so guys are fit year-round, not blown out from squats and leg presses like I am. The ride started at 6:45 a.m., and I was failing to catch the lead pack of three dudes by 7:15. It was a good motivator as I start to lose the dumbbells and rack up the miles, but still pretty embarrassing. I might have to fly back in June to show them who's boss. Or would that be petty?

Now I'm back in L.A., where the group rides aren't so intense, and winter has certainly arrived. The other day, I saw a guy wearing full winter leg tights, shoe covers, gloves and one of those robber masks over his mouth. It was 61 degrees out.

I actually hope he was returning from a crime of some sort. Or maybe his coach prescribed LSD and he misunderstood.