mani-pedi pro

When I first got Embrocation Cycling Journal volume 2, the first page I incidentally turned to was "The Art of the Bike Wash" by Radio Freddy. On the pages following the piece were pictures and two sentences:
"A clean machine is a PRO machine. Keep it PRO, keep it clean."
Sometimes I wish I'd never read that. Those words consistently come flooding back whenever I glance at my bike. But I'm really good at denial, so it wasn't until Jason pointed out that my rear tire was the "grayest white tire [he'd] ever seen," that I knew I had to do something.

But scrubbing my rims really did nothing but smear the brake dust everywhere, and while black tires would hide such nonsense, white [PRO] tires are much less forgiving. So when I made the ridiculously amateur move of rolling over gum, I also simultaenously found a way to whiten those strips of rubber.
I'm not going to go into detail here, but during one extremely embarrassing point in my life, I made out with a boy only to get his chewing gum all over my back. This taught me two things: 1. hook-ups are rarely worth the trouble, and 2. nail polish remover will always be my default go-to harsh chemical of choice.

So while Radio Freddy warns against using harsh chemicals, this is rubber we're talking about, not a Ti frame, so I went at the gum plastered on my tire with a cottonball soaked in nail polish remover. It did the trick, and then some. Because the tire ended up whiter.
And of course, more PRO. And with a trip to NYC planned, the sun finally shining, and a tire that looks more black than gray, I finally pulled on some gloves and gave my rear tire the same treatment [the gloves aren't really necessary unless you have nail polish on and you don't want to screw up your manicure]. I'm sure someone's going to tell me I just did the worst thing I could do to my tires, but clean tires are PRO tires. Even if that means I'm going to flat on the way downtown today.

Plus, unlike the worthless wtf-how-did-your-gum-get-all-over-my-fucking-back hook-up, at least this use of nail polish remover is going to end up in something positive. Well, for my bike. Unfortunately, I can't say I look nearly as PRO. Good thing there's a salon next to NYC Velo. Which means friends, espresso, a couch, bicycles, and a decent mani-pedi are within 20 ft of each other.
What more could a cyclist ask for?

only if...

Yesterday morning was a disaster. Zero coffee until 11am, a dentist appointment I was late to, frustration at not really having a bike I can do anything with, the empty sense of not really belonging anywhere, and mood swings like woah.
Funny, how, a little past noon, I was standing in a place I would have never expected to be a year ago, surrounded by friends who work in a bike shop in NYC, comfortably snapping too many pictures. And then having lunch with the incredibly awesome people behind Independent Fabrication.

Yup, that's right. I went to IF. I'm still not quite sure how it happened. But when NYC Velo became an IF dealer a few weeks ago, a trip to Boston was planned, and a casual "you should come" turned into a full day of adventure.
It started, of course, in Somerville, at the infamous IF factory. A place I couldn't have dreamed of entering without some tangible pretext [most likely in the form of a credit card and an order form for a custom frame], I entered empty-handed and left with an SD disk full of pictures, a few new friends, and some capacity to dream of racing bicycles again.

Mostly broke and with a knee that's slowly giving out, but simultaenously terrified of the obligation to race that would come with having a fully-functioning geared bike, I'm currently having a classic love/hate relationship with the Bianchi. Yesterday it was mostly hate/hate to the point where I was hating all bicycles. Yet somehow I dragged the tractorino to Somerville to a place full of too pretty bicycles and a spray-painted wooden sign that demanded those within those factory walls to "Live the Dream."

An audacious command, the desire to do exactly that seems to permeate the people of IF. But in a way that doesn't reek of douchebaggery or condescension. The somewhat intimidatingly large logo on the factory door leads into a bike nerd's paradise, but one that's full of friendly, incredibly laid-back people. Serious people who have managed to retain the fun in their work and craft. And that is impressive.
IF's passion for bicycles cleared the doubting depression over my ability to do anything of value on a bicycle. Team jerseys became coveted items again, as did derailleurs. Over lunch at the Tavern At the End of the World, I even jokingly recalled a casual suggestion that, to me, seemed completely absurd: that I should get an IF and race for NYC Velo in Boston. Too bad it was snatched up as "brilliant" and "great" with Andy and Joe [of IF] informing me that I could "totally pull off a Factory Lightweight" but I'd have to wait on a NYC Velo kit that would actually fit.

I blinked before backpedaling in panicked fear, the thought of an IF Factory Lightweight a little too much for my awkward legs to handle. And while talk of racing seemed centered around the kind that involves two derailleurs, NYC Velo managed to leave with the infamous pursuit IF track bike in the back of their car. I even got to touch it.

With a Dolan in my kitchen, racing track seems much more feasible. But when I do decide on something with multiple gears and the ability to shift between them...well, that Factory Lightweight is looking really sexy...

peanut butter pro

I promised myself I wouldn't mention it.
But you know how it goes. Promises made to yourself are the hardest ones to keep.
And this, well, this is something to write about.
Because I turned 26 a few days ago. Usually that's not something worth celebrating. Mostly because I'm not 13 anymore, and because birthdays - even my own - tend to be a huge hassle. Even the promise of presents can't really get me excited about turning a year older. I'm more inclined to let the event slide by, unnoticed and undetected by even my closest friends.
But this year was different. Not because I didn't vehemently insist that anyone who happened to remember it forget about it immediately [because that's exactly what I did], or because I didn't treat it like any other day [because I did], but because of a small package wrapped in brown paper, tied with a string.

One of two presents I got this year, I sighed in exasperation when I heard about it. Then complained loudly that my birthday was not - under any circumstances - to be celebrated. But two days after I crested [and passed] the milestone that is 25, I felt almost, just almost, like a real cyclist.
Because underneath the paper wrapping was the iconic Campy 15mm peanut butter wrench. A simple, one-sided affair, made of smooth, sleek metal, it's understated shape and size are definitive of its coveted status. Well, at least amongst the bike nerds. And as I pulled that wrench free of its paper cocoon, I gaped. Then stared at it for a little while before, half-smiling, I managed to stammer out:
"Wait...really?"

I love it - who wouldn't? - but it also signifies a lot more responsibility and a gentle push into a direction that is intimidatingly more pro. True, it's a gift from the kind of friend who will listen to my schizophrenic desires to own a road bike while remaining fearful of hating anything with gears. The kind of friend that won't judge if I never race [geared or otherwise]. The kind of friend who doesn't just see me as a pair of ginormous thighs on a single-speed tank that weighs more than both of his road bikes combined.

It didn't hit me then, as I carefully slipped the wrench back into its paper casing, before flipping through issues of Rouleur [and of course, seeing the infamous Rapha peanut butter ad], and watching too many episodes of "Intervention." But it's also a tiny bit terrifying that people - friends who know me well, even - believe I'm worthy of such a tool.
Or maybe it's actually the opposite - the single-sided nature of the peanut butter wrench specifically points towards riding both my single-speeds more often. Enough to flat. And maybe that's what M1 was getting at: ride more, ride harder, ride until this Campy wrench becomes battered and scarred up from use.
Point taken. Still, that wrench is going to stay wrapped up in paper while it's in my bag. Dinges and dents might be inevitable, but I'd rather them come from work on my bike, or at least from a peanut butter jar, not from all the nonsense in my bag.

flopsy cranks

Handshakes. The first physical contact with a stranger you're supposed to like. A strange social greeting with which you can gauge the other person's social confidence.
Well, at least if the hand offered to you is limp, slightly damp and hardly makes an effort to grip your hand. There's almost nothing worse. It leaves me mentally recoiling, searching for the first opportunity to wipe my hand somewhere without anyone noticing. Unconsciously I usually end up pushing the hair out of my eyes, then almost getting dizzy with panic at the thought of limp handshake sweat near my face.
It's the worst. I think most people would agree.
So it was kind of surprising that that was the first thing I thought of when I finally switched back to the freewheel last week. I had only been riding on the fixed side for about two weeks, but when I hopped back onto my bike, my cranks were positively floppy.

And limp...! Lacking the resistance of a fixed cog, I was lurching around on the street, silently freaking out at the unfamiliar feel of a bike that seemed much looser. And consequently much harder to control.
It took about a block or two until my legs finally understood that pushing back on the pedals did nothing except result in small spurts of terror as the bike continued forward. I consciously had to force myself to coast and stop pedaling when descending. And I was back to dragging my bike up the hills, no momentum pushing my pedals up.
But heading home from work last night, I weaved through a few cars and squeezed though some tight spots, remembering a few weeks ago how I split lanes for the first time in NYC. And while I was fixed then, I realized I was using my brakes to crawl forward on my freewheel, something I know I couldn't have done [without crashing] a year ago.

Stopped at a light, I watched a guy on a yellow IF ratchet his pedals, his cleated feet never touching the ground. I still can't do a trackstand to save my life, so I opted just to watch, leaning on my handlebars, half sitting on my top tube. The light turned green and a small hill was up ahead.
I beat him on the way up. Then got my ass handed to me on the way down. It's the small things, I guess.

choo choo train

So it ends up that I did have a reason to go to IBC this weekend. I needed to purchase and get new pedals installed because - gasp! - I'm flipping that wheel over and going fixed.
Not that I haven't been riding fixed on the track bike. But the Bianchi and the Dolan are such different rides that switching ponies was never a problem. I could rock the freewheel for a longer ride in the morning, then skitter around town later fixed. True, I almost tore my leg off once or twice, but the Dolan's stiff, twitchiness was a constant reminder to keep the cranks turning [or else momentum would].
The Bianchi's relaxed geometry and natural propensity to roll over everything in its path pairs perfectly with a freewheel. Which is why I almost expected to have both legs lurching around yesterday, propelled forward by my rear wheel when I attempted to coast.

It wasn't so bad. In fact, my legs stayed attached to my body. Mostly because my drivetrain sounds like...a train.
Dan M. took a look and jumped on my bike to make sure it was just the shark-finned cog. And as his 6ft+ frame weaved around the store on a 44cm bike, he jokingly squeezed the squealing front brake like a train whistle. It screamed, as usual, like a puppy being run over. It also sounded exactly like a train.

Assured that it wouldn't do anything except sound like I don't actually take care of my bike, I left debating changing my gearing or just purchasing another cog. For now, it's actually a nice reminder that I'm not on that wondrous freewheel anymore. I miss it already; especially being able to clip in and climb hills without that built in assist that fixed gears give you. And coasting. Oh, coasting.
Pedaling [the whole entire way] home, my feet naturally pushed back on the pedals, slowing down, creeping between cars, and allowing for a much greater amount of control - the kind that requires a level of skill that I haven't yet achieved on a freewheel. I remembered how fun it was to maneuver around piles of snow on a fixed gear, even if my knees weren't so happy later on in the day. This might be temporary, but it's definitely still fun.

Grinding to a slightly screechy halt in front of my apartment, I winced a little at the noise. And then remembered Dan's goodbye to me a few hours ago:
"See ya, K Train."
At least I'm still faster than the Green Line.

faking it

Fake til you make it. That's what some reliable news sources [read: Cosmo] have taught me.
That might be why I only wear spandex and Sidis nowadays and will at least try to look the part of serious cyclist. Let's try to forget that I'm currently - and probably will continue to be - incredibly slow. Those are small details that aren't really relevant to this discussion.
Given my recent acquisition of Sidis [seriously one of the most comfortable, efficient things I've ever had attached to my feet], it probably doesn't come as a surprise that I'm turning the "faking it" up a notch. I even have a jersey now [okay, that was almost a joke purchase but I love to rock it]. Now if only my Bianchi looked less like a commuter beater bike and more...racy.
Of course - this being me - I mean that in both senses of the word. The Bianchi being my official training bike [I am currently shamelessly loving that freewheel], I need it to be fast and, you know, as sexy as possible. And while the pink + dark green theme was cool in that super fixster look-I'm-so-hipster-I-can-look-good-in-colors-that-don't-really-match kind of way, watermelons don't really move quickly. They sort of just roll sluggishly.

So it was time for a change. Chris had been pointing out how faded out and gross my formerly pink bartape was for about the past month [yeah, I have amazing friends]. I tested the waters with the purchase and application of a pair of Vittoria Randonneurs. They looked fast. I plunged into the "racy" pool with Pro white bartape last night.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Me? Fast? It's more than a vain hope. It's more like a delusion. Still, I've heard, from reliable sources, that while training endlessly will make you fast, white bartape makes you go even faster. Okay, yeah, that presumes you enjoy training for hours on a trainer, Powercranks, and that inexplicable pain of drinking protein shakes. I'm obviously not there yet...but I'm working on it.

In the meantime, the goal is to at least look like I enjoy all of the above. I'm already practicing chugging protein shakes with a smile. Now if only my legs can keep up...
[Oh, and I'm expecting full reports on Battenkill!]