butch abs

Catching me headed out into rainy weather on my bike a few weeks ago, my openly gay law review faculty manager observed:
"You're so butch."
I thanked him sarcastically in response. Although he was joking, I've actually become accustomed to that perception. As a college freshman, punked out with pink hair, people had thought/hoped I was gay [sorry, ladies]. I've gotten free hot chocolate from Starbucks for my "friend" who was actually my [more obviously gay] sister [we don't look alike enough, apparently]. If I informed my friends at law school that I preferred the girls, I'm not sure that many would be surprised.

Of course, from my sister and her girlfriend's point of view, despite the fact that my thighs are about the size of my sister's nonexistent waist, I'm "so girly." A description which I oddly find insulting. "Girly" seems to imply a weak, fragile, dumbass-in-distress sort of image. And when both my sister and her girlfriend will shriek and run away from bugs while shouting at me to kill it, I'm not sure that description is really accurate.
Caught in the middle, not quite sure where I belong, I try on the dresses in my closet [yes, I own a few], but leave the house in nothing less than Underarmour layered under jeans. And with the sheer amount of sweat exiting my pores on a daily basis, "girly" has no place on the rollers.
Soooooo, I kept this a secret. But then someone else blogged about it, and I felt that maybe this wouldn't make me sound so lame or worse, so "girly." Ready? Here goes: I've been doing Pilates lately.

I know the images that conjures up. The professional late twenties/early thirties career woman with a yoga mat under her arm who has a solid group of girlfriends, makes a fabulous date but hasn't quite found the right man, and gets her nails done on a regular basis. She's considered running a half-marathon but wouldn't go so far as to attempt a triathlon because that would take too much time away from wine bar gossip dates with her future bridesmaids. Think Sex and the City with some physical exercise thrown in. Think everything that does not describe me.
So I've been hesitant to admit that I've been working on my core these past few weeks...from a book. Pilates can cost a pretty penny, and with the rave reviews on Amazon, I figured Brooke Siler's The Pilates Body would be a much cheaper alternative. Guess what? Priced at about $13, it's one of the best investments I've made this fall.

Less than a month ago, I could hardly do the Single Straight Leg Stretch, much less the Roll-Up without lifting my outstretched legs from the mat. But yesterday, I realized that with a little more work, touching my nose to my knees might not be far off. And for what it's worth, I can't even do 1/3 of the whole program yet.
I understand that you don't really need ripped abs to ride or race a bicycle. But since I started subjecting my abs to some daily torture, I've found that it takes more than painful interval sessions on the rollers to get my sciatic nerve to act up. I can carry half my weight in my Ortlieb bag without my spine feeling like it's going to implode. And if that's not enough for you, at the very least, it'll have you standing straight[er] for once.
The chiseled body is still a ways off...but that might be a good thing. Because if I start getting really shredded, it might perpetuate that whole butch thing. And then I might just have to admit that I do that girly thing called Pilates.

ethical ifs

New England falls, post-Halloween and lumbering sleepily towards the promise of Thanksgiving feasts, always bring to mind one of my favorite movies: The Scent of a Woman.
With lines like "the day we stop looking is the day we die," and Al Pacino playing a stubborn, sarcastic, blind Lieutenant, it has to be a popular favorite. While I haven't watched the movie in ages, it's been on my mind recently. And biking past trees that are turning from yellow to bare, it finally hit me why scenes from the movie have been playing in my head.
The Multistate Professional Responsibility Exam [MPRE] is this Saturday, and I'm having some serious doubts.

It's not that I lack ethics, or a sense of professional responsibility, as many friends have joked. It's just that I'm not quite sure I have the right ones. Because when I walked into a review session last weekend and the first thing I heard was "squeal like a pig and rat on your friends," I realized I might need to seriously study for this one.
I do understand why attorneys need to be ethical. But despite the nuclear winter that is my social life, I have difficulty betraying what friendships I have. And if law school has taught me anything, it's that trampling on people to get a better grade has to be possibly the most abhorrent behavior man is capable of.
I'm sure the American Bar Association is fully aware of this, though. Because why else would they make you rat out your friends under threat of punishment [and possibly disbarment]? Still, that's enough cause for concern to have me hitting the books this week; poring over what behavior is absolutely not permitted and what you might be able to do. And ignoring all lessons learned from The Scent of a Woman.

Of course, the bikes are not only serving as vehicles of distraction and procrastination, but also a source of a fair share of disappointment. Because while I'll be guesstimating my way through the MPRE on Saturday, I will be totally missing NYC Velo's "IF You Please" event. Okay, not that I could ride to Piermont, NY on a single-speed, much less a single-speed Bianchi with the IF show ponies that are inevitably going to show up for this ride, but did I really have to be taking an exam while this was going down? A ride with some awesome guys, the chance to ogle pretty IF bikes, and even talk to IF about your dream bike...It feels harsh...a little cruel, even, that I'll have to miss this.
Professional responsibility, however, dictates that I'll be taking the MPRE. So go for me, please. If only to watch Rich Bravo ghost ride both of his IFs all the way to Piermont and back.

fueled by granola

Somehow, I manage to end up at academic institutions attended by failed presidential hopefuls and enough closet hippies to swing the political bent to the more extreme side of the left.
Despite my surroundings, I've always felt a little detached from it all. It's not that I'm not a political liberal [I am] but I'm too pessimistic to entertain the possibility of living peacefully with nature in communes, or decimating political structures and nurturing anarchy. The extreme idealism required to actually advocate such ideas becomes, for me, kind of like that socially awkward and annoying "friend" you have that you stopped extending your sympathies to and inviting out because you just find yourself consistently embarrassed at being associated with them. And it honestly doesn't help when said "friend" doesn't believe in using deodorant.
But that doesn't mean I don't love granola.

Slightly sweet, crunchy clumps of oats, nuts, seeds, and dried fruit are a favorite way to start a morning. Too bad the hippie in me refuses to actually purchase the stuff at the store. My budget can't justify spending $6 or more for a small bag of granola, and besides, I can make it in bulk for the same amount of money.
Which is almost a problem; how much granola can one girl eat, after all? But just when temperatures start to dip, and apple season has me looking around for an excuse to bake, a few willing guinea pigs friends on bicycles show up from NYC. And cobbling together inspiration and a previously-tested recipe, I'll turn on the oven and get to work, mixing and baking a batch of the good stuff.

Sprinkled over some greek-style yogurt or eaten right out of the tupperware container, it's an equally perfect breakfast or [pre-ride] snack. It'll make your entire apartment smell like apple pie but isn't as cloyingly sweet as the kind you might buy at the store. It's also one of the easiest things I've shoved into my oven.
The resulting mix of oaty deliciousness fueled one friend through a 'cross race, another through a mellow ride to Dover, and me through class, homework, and all the drama that comes with law school.
And if that's not enough for you, it's totally NYC Velo certified, too.

Cxraisin Granola [Like most homemade granola, this doesn't produce the incredibly crunchy kind of granola, nor is it very sweet by itself. The dried fruit provides most of the sweetness, but you can always just up the maple syrup or brown sugar factor. I'm also not a huge fan of sunflower seeds or shredded coconut so I kept the recipe fairly basic; but granola recipes are incredibly forgiving so feel free to add/replace your favorite seeds/nuts.]
Ingredients: 5 cups rolled oats 3 tablespoons ground flax seed 2 teaspoons cinnamon 2 tablespoons brown sugar 1 teaspoon salt 1/2 cup slivered almonds [I used raw but roasted is fine] 3/4 cup unsweetened applesauce 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons maple syrup 2 tablespoons vegetable oil 1 1/2 cups dried cranberries and raisins
Directions: 1. Preheat the oven to 350C and line two cookie sheets with aluminum foil or parchment paper. 2. Mix the oats, flax seed, cinnamon, brown sugar, salt, and almonds [and any other nuts/seeds] in a large bowl. 3. In another bowl, mix the applesauce, vanilla extract, maple syrup, and oil. 4. Mix the wet ingredients into the dry. 5. Spread the mixture out onto the cookie sheets. This is when clusters form so be careful not to break it up too much. 6. Bake, carefully stirring every 10 minutes, for 20-30min, or until it seems to have dried out. 7. Cool in the pans before adding in the dried fruit [alternatively, you can just throw in the dried fruit immediately before you devour the stuff].
[Store in an airtight container or in the refrigerator.]

ice ice baby

These past few days, I've been feeling consistently moist.
And yes, it feels as disgusting as that sentence sounds. Because it's been 95 degrees out lately. Yeah, that's right. 95 motherfuckin degrees.
Seriously, this weather is not joking around. I'm sweating just sitting in my apartment, motionless. Going outside means being instantly swaddled in a blanket of wet heat, and stepping off the sidewalk onto the burning asphalt is akin to what you'd expect of an outer ring of purgatory. It is fucking scorching out.

The irony being that it sort of feels like home. Tokyo, that is. Back when my sister and I were living in Tokyo, I would get dragged to kendo practice in the early morning hours of summer Sundays. My brain still completely asleep, we'd hop a train to Shibuya to swing around a bamboo sword in a dojo that lacked AC. I consistently passed out during practice from dehydration.
But while those few summer practice sessions were incredibly embarrassing, my sister taught me something that summer: never underestimate a lesbian on an athletic mission. Because while I had - and continue to be - "the prepared one," who carries around tissues, handkerchiefs, chapstick, hand cream, and gum, my sister was the one that produced an ice cold towel in a ziplock bag that summer.

It's a simple concept that actually screams "holy shit you are a godsend!!!" A small hand towel soaked in water, wrung out a little, slipped into a ziplock bag and thrown into the freezer overnight, it thaws just enough in a sports bag or jersey pocket [or you know, just leave it on the counter before you hit the gym]. Press it against your forehead or the back of your neck and it's just as good as jumping into a pool post-ride.

It also feels pretty awesome post-drenching-session-on-the-rollers. In fact, make sure you have one on hand when you climb onto those things. Because when your shorts get caught on your saddle and your whole bike rolls backwards just as you hop forward and the stem smashes into your public bone, you just might thank me.
I'm not even kidding. And, you're welcome.

stretch marks

You know those moments of slow realization combined with a sinking feeling of dread, like when you read Youtube video comments and realize that some people just shouldn't have Internet access? And that feeling sort of deepens even more when you masochistically keep reading said comments and someone [and it always has to be someone with a generically retarded handle] makes an even more idiotic comment in response to the first mindblowingly stupid comment? And then you're like wow, this world is fucked?
Okay, I won't go that far. But I've been feeling that these days. Because apparently, I really need to start stretching.

A pair of rollers will do that to you, I guess. Jumping onto them eagerly after almost a week away, with minimal stretching, my thighs were instantly twitching and burning, my forearms and hands shaking from gripping bare bars. Sprawled out on my floor, completely spent, I almost couldn't get up when my bike decided to crash to the floor.
But when I did, my calf seared. Being a champion of making really stupid decisions, I was like oh, that's interesting, then proceeded to ignore it for a day. In retaliation, my right calf wound itself up so tight my sciatic nerve felt stiff all the way up to my lower back. I couldn't even lie down without feeling like I needed to crack my back. Of course, when I tried to, I couldn't. Fuck me.

Fighting the urge to ride the rollers anyway, I took a full day off the bike; stretching, massaging, stretching, and massaging all day. It was feeling loose enough to get back to spinning the wheels in place the next day. I even managed to get outside, dicking around downtown just because. Then it was back to stretching, massaging, stretching, and more stretching.
Yeah, I know. This whole not-stretching-until-now makes me as moronic as the aforementioned Youtube commentators. It's no excuse, really, but having never been a proper athlete, the only thing I can think of when I'm done imposing physical pain on myself is a shower and some activity that involves being motionless for some [extended] period of time. Instead, my body decides to act like a melodramatic suicidal emo-goth by threatening to inflict pain on itself if I don't pamper it by stretching.

I've been calling its bluff until now; but apparently that shit is for real. Which is incredibly annoying in a sense, but I'd rather suck it up and stretch a bit than spend another weekend gimping around my apartment.
Sigh. Back to stretching, I guess.

swatch it

Any weekend will end right when it starts off with an invitation to a movie viewing on a Billyburg rooftop, with a smoldering grill to roast marshmallows and assemble s'mores.
Even better when that invitation is extended by bike friends, and the movie is "Tuff Turf," starring an insanely young James Spader and Robert Downing, Jr. Not to mention the insanely fabulous outfits.
Maybe that's because I absolutely love the 80s. The crimped hair, the scrunchies, the best friend necklace crazes...it brings back memories of growing up in New Jersey, where I first learned how to ride a bike, attempting, desperately, to keep up with my older sister. By then the differences between us were starkly evident. My parents, resolutely oblivious, still bought matching whatever for us to wear.
Back then, I resisted it. And even now, I balk at getting identical handbags, accessories, dresses, whatever with girl friends. I rationalize it by telling myself that my identity shouldn't have to be given material form or some indication that I belong to a certain group. It just feels sort of weird.
Then of course, I went and contradicted myself.

But it involved an 80s/early 90s icon: the Swatch. And bicycles! Because NYC Velo just decided to bring them back.

Heading back into the city from a training ride, Brett apparently needed a battery for his Swatch. That turned into the NYC Velo staff pulling out and dusting off their own respective Swatches, including Justin's limited edition Renzo Piano beauty.

So naturally, I was all too easily cajoled into purchasing one for myself, [especially because I've been lacking an everyday wrist watch for a small eternity]. Of course, I also felt a little special being the first non-official-employee sporting one into the shop.
Then, later, back in Boston, I felt a lot special when Mike, cassette, and I ended up on the Rapha blog [yup, even with the bags under my eyes in the posted picture]. But, as usual, more on that later. For now, go get yourself a new Swatch.