hunting for gears

Last Thursday spelled the end of law school classes, but I was still sweating out of stress and completely sober a few hours after class let out. Rummaging around my fridge for whatever was for dinner, I found a few ice cold bottles of beer from forever ago, because when drinking just the neck of a beer can get you floored, a six pack tends to last a while. I thought about it a little, picking up one of the bottles that was lying on its side, putting it back upright before thinking eh, probably not, and finding that spinach that had to be polished off.
I’m thinking more about that beer now that I’m back in Boston and a broken water pipe means that no one in the city should be drinking the water. I was even a little afraid to drink that Americano I got at Cafe Fixe, and I’m definitely questioning if showering in that water is actually going to end up with me being cleaner than the alternative. But back to the beer, and why I wasn’t drinking it.

It had nothing to do with my confidence in my ability to cite a paper while mostly hammered, and more to do with the fact that I had to be up by 6, out the door by 7, and on a bus to NYC by 8. Four hours, lunch, and a few minutes of prepping later, I was back on a borrowed bike that’s too big for me but has gears, and has that adorable tendency to make the seat feel like a pitbull that’s jumped up, bit onto my lady parts and refused to let go. It’s probably the junky seat I have on there [the famed leopard print stripe stock saddle that used to come on the Bianchi San Jose], rather than the bike which rides and shifts like air, but either way I learned my lesson the last time I rode it, and this time, it didn’t hurt to pee for five hours after the ride.
TMI, right? Probably. But hey, it has gears, and like my 8 year old self who didn’t used to care how nasty a pony was as long as it had four legs and a tail, dream bikes with gears - even not so comfortable ones that don’t exactly fit - have been on my mind lately. Which might be old news to some, but of course, I’m the last to admit these kinds of things to myself. Because when you’re stuck with two gears between two bikes, and limited funds, it seems like I shouldn’t be allowed to dream so much. That maybe it’s easier to trick myself into believing that I won’t have shifting paddles for a while, so I should make the best out of what I’ve currently got.
But dreaming is free, and in an attempt to avoid the kind of rash decision-making that puts me into forever-single-speed-track-bike-land, I’ve been doing a little investigating. If I’m honest with myself, I’m irresistibly drawn to lighter frames but might not be so enamored with how aluminum rides. I haven’t tried my hand [seat?] at carbon, which is so deliciously airy but inevitably weighed down by that whole “it feels like it’s going to fall apart” feeling. Then, there’s the old standby of steel; much heavier but cushy and comfortable and unlikely to shatter, but difficult to finance if you’re looking for a frame that isn’t made out of water piping. [That's Andy of NYC Velo's IF and Coach DS's Parlee.]

The tyranny of choice. Sometimes I wish someone would push a bike into my hands and tell me this is the only bike that will ever fit me so I better ride it into the ground. Which I happily would do, instead of wavering over websites, frames, and magazines, judging components and wheels to see if this bike is actually worth it, or if it fits any one of my ridiculously arbitrary requirements like “it doesn’t come with Sora” and “I refuse to ride something that is women’s specific and therefore only comes in baby blue.”
I suspended all that, though, when Bicycling came in the mail the other day. “Editor’s Choice Bikes of the Year,” it said, and I was sure it would be filled with good stuff. With a female Editor in Chief, Bicycling’s been doing a fair bit of stuff for the fairer sex, so I naturally expected to see a women’s specific section, which there was. Awesome, I thought, this might lead me to the dream bike of my dreams that comes in size tiny...!

Um...yeah...
When I flipped to the women’s section, for some reason I guess I expected a women’s entry level bike too. Instead, all three bikes listed are over $3k. Great carbon fiber bikes with solid components [the Giant TCR Advanced 1 W comes with Ultegra 6700], but way out of my budget, not to mention a price tag at which I’d rather go custom. But then again, I’m not a competitive cyclist by any means, and maybe CF gets some people’s juices going. That’s not to say I didn’t see a few interesting not-quite-entry-level stuff [the Jamis Xenith Comp priced at $1950 and the BH Speedrom 105 at $2399], but of course, they don’t come in my size.
There’s good stuff in there, just not THE ONE for me. Which, I suppose, is a blessing in a way. Because this whole frustrating, headache-inducing, sometimes disappointing, other times extremely satisfying hunt for the perfect bicycle is what makes it all worth it in the end, right?

sequins and stress levels

What's a girl to do when a law journal implodes in her face, dragging friendships down the drain with it, and mashing on the rollers in frustration just isn't cutting it?
She gets out every sequined whatever out of her closet, tries them all on with every high-heeled shoe she owns, then sits on her bed, clothes strewn about, reading On Writing by Stephen King or re-reading bits and pieces of Ten Points [by Bill Strickland] or perusing through the November issue of Bicycling Magazine [again]. And when that doesn't do the trick, it's time for a makeover.
Not the kind involving a perm or manicured nails, but a bike-over. The bar tape has been slowly unraveling on my Bianchi, but in true scatter-brained fashion, I decided to concentrate my efforts on the kept woman that is the Dolan.

Because the Dolan might be flashy, but she prefers to stay indoors and fan herself in front of the TV [or, in my case, Hulu]. The deep track drops were sexy but inhibited outdoor ventures, and like most trophy wives/girlfriends scantily clad boobs bars can only get you so far. The white saddle was [literally] an intolerable pain in the ass. So I put my foot down.
I was going to fully wrap those bars and smack on some hood brakes and switch out that stupid saddle even if it ended up looking like me wearing mismatched sequined clothes and too much eyeliner after a stressful day. Because while it might not be kosher, if that was going to get me riding more, and longer, then I didn't care about breaking THE RULES. I'd rather get run over by another cyclist on the track, rather than get hit by a bus on the way to the track because I couldn't properly maneuver that skitterish Dolan with track drops on it. Besides, the track drops can be strapped to my back, and road drops would open up the possibility of riding the Dolan in places where this concept of "wind" was less forgiving than in my apartment.

The saddle went first, replaced by the [totally awesome] leopard-print, porn-star saddle that came stock on the Bianchi [as Kanye would say, "they don't make 'em like this anymore,"...jealous?]. The bars got pulled off, and with the aid of a bestie [a.k.a. M1], the road drops got the full bar wrap treatment.

I know, I know. You're all scrutinizing and judging just how those bars got wrapped. I actually debated writing about it because it's the one thing that can elicit volatile displays of emotion from the most stony-faced of mechanics. The thing is, while I do care about how my bars look and feel [and I think they turned out pretty slick], I realized that in the process, half of me really didn't. It wasn't sheer laziness [okay, there might have been some of that], but as long as it stayed on my bars until spring, and as long as I could ride the damn thing hard and long, and, okay, as long as it didn't look heinous, I didn't really care. I could try to find the perfect white women's saddle [why are those so hard to find?!], and I could wipe down my rims and buy whiter tires. I could even switch out those cheap black toe straps for white leather ones. Or, I could forget about how it should look and ride it.
Because like the sequined ensembles I throw together on a stressful whim, how good my bike looks [or not] won't do me an ounce of goddamn good if I can't pull my shit together. Which, as applied to the bike, means being able to pedal that thing fast and hard. So that's what I'm doing - riding - and, of course, hoping the slightly confused mishmash of parts, patterns, and colors will get my legs to Chris Hoy proportions by spring.

rock star lube

I am obsessed with trashy TV shows like "Intervention" [and yes, "Obsessed"].
I'm not ashamed to say that I'll watch episodes of "Intervention" on Hulu while I'm on my rollers, morbid fascination allowing me to momentarily forget how much my legs are hurting. Crack addicts, meth heads, anorexics, cutters...It's addictive. I can't stop.
One episode in particular has stuck out; maybe because a bicycle was involved. A loving mother of two who was now homeless, hooked on meth, and forbidden to see her children, she did lines off of the porcelain top of a toilet in her underwear. With close-cropped black hair, darkly-lined eyes, and a stick-thin figure, even on her bicycle, she looked like a total rock star.

I am slightly ashamed to say that I was disappointed and shocked when she cleaned up and transformed herself into a normal, slightly frumpy woman in her late 30s. But I think of her whenever I lube up my chain.
Because I've been using Rock 'n' Roll lube, and that stuff is slick.

After about two months of forgetting to buy lube [despite the inordinate amount of time I spend in bike shops], a friend finally brought me a bottle of this stuff because it was apparently flying off the shelves at NYC Velo. I had my doubts. It looked exactly like the dry stuff I was using earlier, which a seasoned mechanic told me was probably made by Satan. Also, it's lube. Other than the whole wet or dry thing, aren't they all just the same?
Apparently not. A single application later, my chain was as smooth as Mick Jagger. A length of metal links that had once groaned and squeaked with accumulated dirt was now as silent as rock shows are loud. Pedalstrokes were like cutting through warm butter - or, to keep the rock star analogy going, like doing lines of top, high-grade cocaine.

"I looooove riding my bicycle," that meth head had said with the delirium produced by non-medical use of hypodermic needles and snorted lines. I remember being slightly appalled as I watched her pedaling her cruiser along, and thinking that this woman was clearly living in some other reality.
But I started thinking, maybe that declaration wasn't so much a product of illegal substances, and just the result of proper application of Rock 'n' Roll lube. Or, at least I sort of hope so. Because otherwise, with the way this lube has me loving my bike rides, people are going to start thinking I'm a meth head, too.

slippered feet

With bicycles, the more you know, the more you know how much you don't know when you know something's wrong.
At least as applied to me.
"I think it's my bottom bracket," I'll say.
"Um...no...that looks okay. It's your [chainring/freewheel/chain/any other part that is not my bottom bracket]," will be the reply from a trusted mechanic.

But I'm getting better! I'm attempting to make less clueless stabs at what might be wrong with my bike and trying to insert some logic into my thought processes. So when I realized that there was an incredible amount of play in my left cleat, I actually didn't immediately assume it was my bottom bracket or my headset. I didn't even think it was the chainring! Carefully balanced on a clipless pedal that, even when clipped in, felt like a slippery piece of ice, I reasoned that my cleats were just worn through.
This was cause for worry and concern. I had heard of friends' cleats clipping out mid-climb and with my tendency to really pull up on the pedals, any clipping out would inevitably result in a broken pubic bone or a shattered lady part. That didn't seem like fun. I kind of really wanted to avoid that.

But I had a fully stacked day ahead of me. Which meant that while I would normally love any excuse to run to a bike shop, it was actually sort of stressing me out. The thought of trying to race through work and get to a shop in time before closing...but if I didn't get new cleats, I was fucked. Crap, crap, crap!
Remember how I said I'm not that good with bikes?

I got to school and took off my shoe to find...a loose cleat. That was it. A few screws had come loose, enabling the cleat to rotate and feel incredibly unstable. Other than that, my cleats were fine. I mean, sure they're scuffed to pieces, but it didn't look like I would have to sprint to a shop that afternoon.
The screws got tightened down as much as possible with my small multi-tool, then finished off later at home. They're functional now, despite my 15 minute freak out session about how my cleats were worn out and that had to be the problem.
I was wrong, again. But at least I didn't think it was the bottom bracket.

snobby shorts

Being somewhat of a closet snob, I love the vague language of being in the know.
"Did you see--"
"Oh yeah."
"Unbelieveable, right?"
"But awesome."
"Exactly."
And, of course, I love it even more when this top secret, exclusive language is used in the context of bikes and blogs. I'm not talking about my own...No, no, leave it to someone far more meticulous and clever.

I'm talking about Velodramatic. His cycling photography is a-maz-ing, but what unfailingly becomes the topic of discussion amongst readers [i.e., those clearly in the know about good style, taste, and photography] is the discovery of his "tab." A list of every bike-related purchase investment he's made, complete with a grand tally, it displays what I normally would throw into the mental "ignore as much as possible" file cabinet. Obsessions can get out of control quite easily, and when paired with numbers and dollar signs, it's enough to make you consider trying to regain your sanity.
Of course, it doesn't work that way. Despite the shorter days [why is it getting dark at 7.30pm now?!] and the dwindling bank account, I made [what I believed would be] my final bike-related purchase for the next few months. And that was going to be it. I mean, other than a tube here and there and the odd bottle of lube, nothing substantial was going to be purchased. That was the promise.

But when I got my first ever pair of bike shorts a few days ago, it also opened a Pandora's box of "things I really need now that I have shorts." Because it feels like I'm finally making some leap; getting serious - for real this time - and committing to more hours and millions of miles on both of my bikes. No more of this "well, my saddle hurts" excuse. Pull on those black Lycra contraptions of diaper-esque proportions and get out and fucking ride.
And ride I did. This past weekend was bubbling over with bike rides - on the rollers and off. But that also had me discovering that those bike shorts weren't my final investment. Even with the shorts, the saddle on my Dolan still feels like a meat tenderizer, the cooler weather is oh-so-perfect for longer rides but also indicates a need for a new jersey, and eventually, arm warmers, leg warmers, gloves, and embrocation. And if I ever get to pushing hours on the rollers, another set of clipless pedals.

It adds up. Dizzyingly, in fact. And as the numbers creep skyrocket, I'm almost tempted to look around for a less expensive hobby [although, it's really debatable if those really exist]. But it seems I'm in it for the long haul - for life, even - so it's really not worth sweating all those minor details. At least that's what I've been telling myself lately, anyway.
Besides, deep, deep, deep down inside, maybe I subconsciously knew purchasing those shorts would mean entry into the snobbier sub-world of cycling where t-shirts absolutely cannot be paired with cycling shorts if you want to be taken seriously. Where black shoes are only for domestiques, and kits should perfectly match your team-issue bike. Which, admittedly, means many more purchases await me under a heavy cloud of potential debt.
Yeah, thank God for debit cards.

kept

Like most women, in my laziest moments, I've considered it. The concept - at least in the abstract - doesn't sound so bad, and as long as you perform your end of the bargain, there are clearly some tangible rewards to be gained. And it's not like you're chained, unwillingly, to something you never agreed to. The whole concept revolves around acceptance and performance.
I am, of course, referring to being a kept woman.
In actuality - my latent cougar status aside - I could probably never do it [and that's not because of any record of poor performance]. Mostly pouring money into clothes, shoes, bags, and bling are part of a past life that just doesn't interest me.

Well, as long as said clothes, shoes, bags, and bling are not bike-able. I'll pass up the vintage Dior for denim shorts I can bike in and a cassette shirt, Anna Sui pumps for Sidis, Loew bag for the Ortlieb, and Vivienne Westwood earrings for a bike helmet. All signs that I should probably seek immediate help for my blatant obsession. All signs that I'm totally in love with bicycles.
And that's sort of the real reason I could never be a kept woman; in predictable cougar [cub] fashion, I've fallen desperately in love with two very young things. And for now, I'm the one doing the keeping.

Being poor and broke, you might wonder how I manage. It's been no joyride, but somehow I'm cutting enough corners to make ends meet. My loves might be demanding, but I know they're both worth it. Every single penny.
And they've cost me quite a few thousands of pennies, my bikes. From new freewheels to bottom brackets to bar tape to pedals, both the Dolan and Bianchi are bleeding me dry. I'm fully aware of this slow financial death, but instead of maybe streamlining my purchases to the one bike I'm riding on the street, I'm cutting fresh wounds into my bank account, almost relishing in the resulting pain [and hunger]. Because those purchases are making the bikes smoother, lighter, or just harder to pedal. And that makes me love them that much more.

But I'm fickle. So when Andy mentioned the possibility of purchasing an IF, I momentarily forgot about the two ponies already in my stable. I feigned hesitation while my mind raced, imagining paint schemes and matching bar tape and saddles. I attempted to laugh off the suggestion while imagining what tires I'd get. I actually considered it, before trying to forget about it, then thought about it again. It's true. I'd die for an IF.
I'm fully aware of that. But sliding through afternoon NYC streets, scooting around trucks and taxis, my chain rasped noisily and I kicked myself for forgetting to grab some chain lube at the shop. And pushing the pedals a tiny bit harder, I realized that I liked my new gearing a lot; which means that the Dolan needs another cog or two. Those thoughts expanded into lists of bike parts and tools, saddles, new bar tape, and winter tires, before I finally admitted it to myself. I can hardly keep up with the demands of two bikes...how could I even think of dealing with three?

Besides, the high cost of maintenance of both of my existing bikes is probably a mixed blessing. Obsessive enough to have meltdowns when even one of my bikes doesn't function properly, pampering three would probably result in institutionalization. Plus that all-too-familiar routine of starvation as I stretch out an already quickly-thinning budget. Something at which even bike friends have rolled their eyes or shaken their heads.
"Dude, make sure you eat," they say.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just, you know," I usually respond, trying to dismiss the subject entirely with the most inarticulate, vague answer I can think of, too embarrassed to actually complete the sentence.
But I'm sure you'll understand: I'm just, you know, in love.