pimp pampering

It's one of those prerequisites to life. One of those experiences that everyone goes through and hopefully comes out a better person for it. Kind of like how you should date a total asshole at some point in your life. It's not something you're going to enjoy, but you'll learn a thing or two, ponder it for a few days, then mature and grow as a result.
It's never not disappointing, though. Sometimes it's sort of heartbreaking, really. Because when you've been crushing on someone for so long, hyping them up in your head, and you finally get drunk brave enough to lock lips...the realization that the crush cannot, for the life of them, decently make out, will always break your heart a little.
I mean, maybe the panic and desire to escape hits first ["oh, um, well...goodnight!"]. But afterwards, you're left weighing if the crush is cute enough to really merit make out sessions that are more akin to your dog attacking the ice cream smeared on your face rather than the sultry lip tangling you previously imagined.

That heavy feeling of resignation is kind of what the past few days have been like. After a weekend and then some of NACCC, things have been starkly normal and incredibly mundane. Sure, the sun's shining out and it's scorching hot; perfect weather for some crazy rides. Instead I have to force myself to get on the rollers before spending too much time putzing around my apartment, half-heartedly looking around for someone something to do.
Meanwhile my chain sounds like a two-pack-a-day smoker, my gearing is a bit spinny, and I have no idea where my No. 4 hex wrench is. Awesome.
But like the feeling of utter guilt and self-disgust after a night of binging on ice cream, chocolate, and peanut butter filled pretzels post-break-up, I knew I had to get my shit together while the summer was still extant. And pampering is always a great way to get over something less-than-perfect-and-bordering-on-downright-disappointment. So it was off to a place I can comfortably go to without perfectly tweezed eyebrows, bombshell hair, or even a slightly coordinated outfit: IBC.
And hey, I left feeling pimp.

My seat raised just a tiny bit, my gearing changed a little bit, and my bottom bracket changed a lot a bit, the Bianchi now rides like omg-holy-shit-i-can't-believe-it's-not-buttah. Which has the obvious effect of not only making me want to go on rides, but had me smugly cruising down Beacon, without a hand on the bars.

And with still-mostly-pristinely white Vans to complement the mostly-white bartape, white pedals, and white toe straps, I even felt a little pro[seur]. Excitement going to my head, I even did two sessions on the rollers yesterday, the pro high only fading when - yet again - sweat poured into my eye, leaving me nearly skidding to a stop, one eye squeezed shut, trying to mentally deal with the pain while trying to figure out how to get off my bike in one piece.
Yeah, I got a long way to go. But hopefully I'll [at least] look good doing it.

clandestine chandeliers

Sharing is caring, I know. But sometimes, I'm tempted to keep certain things to myself. Like those gems of whatever that you discover, and then hide away, at least for a little while, while you weigh who you'll let in on your little secret, and in what order.
The irony being that I don't really consider myself good at keeping secrets. Especially when they're good secrets.
Like the addicting soul of Eli Paperboy Reed & The True Loves that's been streaming out of my speakers for the past few days [not clicking on those links is your loss, so I'm not even going to demand you check them out]. Sure they've been around for a while...but with music like this coming from homey little Boston, and the NACCCs starting today, I feel just a little bit obligated to share this little gem.
And there's something else, too. And it's called Superb.

Conceived by Jason, it's the stunningly hip extension of Cambridge Bicycle's track bike boutique. The website went live earlier this summer, but it's the space that I want to talk about. The plans for it are unbelievable, and I've had the good fortune of peeking into the space [formerly that of Boston Bicycle] every few weeks and watching the whirlwind transformation. Gold and teal ceilings, custom damask, plans for a display that will blow your mind, and chandeliers.
I'll let you in on another secret, too. Jason was one of the first to know about cassette before her official launch, and when I dragged M1 to the space a few weeks back, it ended in a few iced americanos...and an idea.

A collaboration t-shirt between Superb and cassette, the idea was sketched out within 24 hours of that meeting, delivered to M1 and the concept finalized between 2 to 3am on a Sunday night and the hour before I boarded a bus back to Boston on Monday morning. The shirts were printed, cured, and mailed within 48 hours [did I mention we work fast?]. And just in time, too. Because with couriers from all across North America flooding the city, Superb is a destination spot, and then some.
Which is probably why I can't keep the fact that it's amazing and going to be totally awesome a secret. All exacerbated by the fact that late Tuesday night, M1 sent me an iphone shot of a test Superb shirt. I nearly screamed in excitement before reaching for the phone, the only words I could form being "dude...dude...that shirt...oh my god..."

"Yeah," he replied, "I want to sort of steal one."
And there you have it. Proof that it's a good one. And therefore a secret I am incapable of keeping. Want one? Stop by Superb...and make sure you say hi, too!
[And yes, it's Rapha Scarf Friday again...]

asian cyclist fetish

Being single and female presents its plethora of problems.
Add "Asian" to the mix and it's like a whole nother universe.
Like if anyone seemingly flirts with me [a rare occurrence, thankfully], I immediately imagine their rooms: a tiny closet-like space filled with anime posters, Asian language books, pictures of ex-girlfriends [all Asian], and a corner devoted to video games. If social escape from said person seems difficult, I usually just try to open my mouth and curse like a sailor in an attempt to dispel any conceptions of the socially docile, obedient, Asian woman who also happens to be a total freak in bed.
I'm not sure if it works, but I've been completely creeped out enough to run the usual checks before entertaining even friendships. Paranoid? Probably. But I like to think I'm more interesting than my ethnicity.
Oddly enough, though, I fully endorsed fetishization yesterday. I even took pictures. In a bathroom.

Okay, it didn't involve anything racy [at least in the normal sense of that term]. Just that it was my first time using the NYC Velo bathroom [despite my love for iced coffee, my propensity to hang out endlessly at NYC Velo, and the fact that iced coffee also has me running to the bathroom every other hour]. And when you find yourself in a "unisex" bathroom/shrine to all things bike, with a wrench for the cold water knob on the sink, well, the camera is bound to come out.
Not to mention that entering NYC Velo's bathroom is like peeking into the Devil's handbook. If putting a ring on [or having a ring put on by] a cyclist is your thing, that is. The walls are plastered with posters of Tour and Giro winners, and where you might expect soft-core porn or Maxim covers, are pictures of Merckx, Lance, and Cipollini.

Which might make you question if putting a ring on the object of your affection [at least in NY state] is actually possible. But blatant homosexual crushes aside, it's also a glimpse into a world that has little room for other loves. And while that kind of obsession can too easily spill over into creepy-ville, I hypocritically felt right at home.

Declaring my approval as I exited the bathroom, I wondered what I would put up on my own bathroom walls. I couldn't think of anything [mostly due to a sheer lack of posters] but late last night after arriving back to my own apartment in Boston, I found it. A picture tweeted by Competitive Cyclist, it's something worth sticking up on a bathroom wall, in front of my desk, or even by my bed. And though still unable to do a wheelie [much less a wheelie off the ground on some bling tdf bike in front of the L'Arc du Triomphe after becoming the first Japanese cyclist to finish a post-war Tour], I'd rock that kit on a 'drome.
I'd even let him put a ring on it.

sweet goodbye

I'm boarding another bus this afternoon to head back home to Boston. Goodbye NYC, goodbye swelteringly hot printing studio in Billyburg, goodbye comfy black couch in NYC Velo.
And also, in a way, goodbye summer.
Not that it's over, technically. But most cyclists will probably agree that they're feeling it pulling to a reluctant close. The hot summer rides aren't going to taper off into more time indoors on trainers or rollers just yet [unless, like me, you're dreaming almost strictly of velodromes recently]. And evenings will probably still be spent - as they should be - with a cold beer or a sticky, melty ice cream cone.
Still. The Tour's over.

The cycling event that dominates three weeks of July, it creeps up on you as you long for clear, sunny days that stretch their light late into the evenings, and keeps you, inexplicably, lingering in front of the TV or computer instead of going on that planned ride. Then in a whirlwind of graceful muscle, it's over, only the ghost of Andy Schleck's smile reminding you of why you used to be in such a good mood in the mornings.
Maybe it was just the really good espresso, though.
Unable to watch the Tour on my nonexistent TV, I was limited to following it through riders' tweets, informative blogs, and friends who gushed about the day's stage. In response to being cut out from the excitement and adventure, I tried to block it out instead, pretending that things weren't actually happening over in Europe during the week. Weekends in NYC, though. That's when the Tour could unfold before my eager eyes via Versus, the lack of sleep from passing out well past 2am only to get up 5 hours later getting pushed aside as a video camera chased Alberto, Andy, and Lance.

That tends to catch up with you, unfortunately, just when everyone hits Mt. Ventoux. Exhausted from hours of printing the night before, I slept in to a ridiculous hour [given le Tour] and booked it through the heat to NYC Velo, where a viewing of the decisive 20th stage was scheduled, along with an espresso tasting of Gorilla, Abraco, and Stumptown coffee. Caffeine, friends, and the Tour? There was no way I could resist.
The promise of such a caffeinated treat pushed sluggish blood through still-half-asleep veins and I managed to scoot into NYC Velo in just in time to watch Andy pull Lance, Alberto, Bradley Wiggins, and a lagging Frank up a giant fucking mountain that no sane person should ever attempt by bicycle. And watching the chase - punctuated by bursts of speed courtesy of Andy and those white Jawbones - I completely forgot that I hadn't had coffee all morning. I was even okay with watching, standing, as the couch and stools were all occupied by those equally addicted to Andy le Tour.

The testy bitchery from lack of caffeine only just started to stir after Pellizotti crossed the finish line; one that was situated just over a hill that looked like it was at a 90 degree angle to the ground [wherever that was]. As Versus slowly unclenched its dominating grasp on my brain and ability to function, I was handed a good strong shot of espresso, and a Mt. Ventoux of pastries to choose from. Any smartass comment I had for friends died in my throat as I sipped brown nectar and munched on a piece of blueberry cornmeal cake from the Birdbath Green Bakery. And coming off the high that is the Tour de France, it was the perfect ending to a Saturday morning.

And, I'm almost tempted to say, the perfect ending to a summer. With no more Tour viewings until [gasp!] next year, I'm already slipping into the kind of immobilizing depression that's only appropriate for New England winters. The kind that has me staring at my bike before rolling over and squeezing my eyes shut in an attempt to fall back to sleep despite the resulting overwhelming guilt. Which actually sort of surprises me, and makes me suspect that maybe it wasn't just the coffee and pastries that had me so hooked on the Tour this summer.
Sure, it's a little late in the race [mostly because it's over], but maybe I'm seriously getting into this competitive cycling thing.

braking up

Like most people, I really hate heartbreak. The crying, self-doubt, nights alone that used to be spent either on the phone or giggling with a boyfriend, and just the complete emotional exhaustion. It sucks.
I suppose I was incredibly lucky when, the morning after my last break up, I ran into a friend who had broken up with her 4-year boyfriend. Which put things into perspective and I was all oh shit, never mind. And besides, it wasn't long until I felt those almost guilty pangs of relief that it was over.
By this point in my life, despite my limited track record, I understand that's a glaring sign that things would have never worked out anyway. I'm a little concerned, though, because I've been getting that feeling of guilty relief too much these days.
Oh, Boston. You're endearing, quaint, and so charming. It's just that I can't keep myself from humming Kanye's "Homecoming" as I slide down streets slowly coming to life to catch a bus down to NYC. I thought it was just a fling at first, but I might be bordering on emotional cheating.

Because even if I get caught in rain and end up slip skidding around on a city full of oblivious pedestrians, I'm resisting returning to Boston already. And with a shop full of friends and trucks serving real wafels de liege, can you really blame me?
A plan that had been tossed around, talked about, and even duly noted in an iphone to-do list since we came up with the concept for the "Breakfast of Champions" shirt, M1 and I finally hunted down the Wafels & Dinges truck yesterday afternoon. In the rain. After Twitter-stalking to find the truck's location, I found myself dodging cabs while attempting to catch up with a 40lbs Dutch bike with a coaster brake that, once it gets going, seems pretty much unstoppable [M1 managed to skid stop on it, which was incredible to watch].

Pedaling up from the East Village to Midtown, we steered around cabs, cyclists going the wrong way, pedicabs, and pedestrians, in rain that was getting progressively stronger. Around West 28th Street, I questioned whether the general discomfort of riding in the rain and the resulting frazzled nerves from biking in the city was really worth it. I mean, this was just a wafel, right?
Verdict?

Totes worth it. I mean, do you have eyes? Are you seeing this picture? FYI that is a warm wafel de liege coyly blanketed in a gooey layer of nutella, the powdered sugar on top just enough to make sure we both get diabetes [M1 and I shared one, in some half-ass attempt to justify stuffing our faces with pure sugar and fat].

And stuff our faces we did. About 14 seconds after being handed a paper tray/plate containing belgian deliciousness, we sat in sated insular shock despite the rain coming down from increasingly gray skies. The wind started to pick up, and as the afternoon slipped into the early evening, temperatures dropped just enough to be noticeable.
Half-jogging through the rain to spend some more quality time on the NYC Velo couch, the weather reminded me that it would be fall too soon, school would start, and with it cyclocross season. And with a bike that hovers around a solid 20 pounds, it seems that I'll be doing more spectating than participating again, this year.
Still, I'll be in New England, center of East Coast 'cross. Which makes me think that there's still hope that Boston and I can make it, despite this summer NYC fling.
[And, of course, it's Rapha Scarf Friday.]

geekhouse-ery

Monday.
No matter how chipper I might be feeling on this day of the week, that line from "Office Space" will run through my head at least five times, in that same gratingly annoying voice:
"Looks like someone's got a case of the Mondays!"
And then there's that Swingline stapler by the copy machine that I wish was bright red and belonged to a co-worker that looked like Milton, who would mutter and stutter about the squirrels outside his window. The ones that were apparently married.
Oh, Milton. I loved his glasses, the timid muttering, that forlorn look when he didn't get any birthday cake, and of course, just his sheer geekery. Which might explain why, in a way, I love the name [and bicycles] behind Geekhouse.

And while I can't quite say that I love the people behind Geekhouse [yet], well, I'm at least in strong like of them. All [two] of which I officially met while infiltrating the NYC Velo ranks last Wednesday. After refueling on caffeine, we rolled up to a garage space packed to the brim with machines, tools, and [of course] bicycle frames, and we got to see Geekhouse at work.
I've actually been to this particular address in Allston once before [though over a year ago], but last week was the first time I got the full tour and a peek into the personalities behind the instantly-recognizable frames of Geekhouse. And though the space was vastly different from the IF warehouse we had just visited, the same intense love for building bicycle frames was crammed into every nook and cranny of the place.

From a one-man show started in 2002 by Marty, it's expanded to sustaining a full-time employee. And with frames painted in saccharine-sweet colors, a Geekhouse frame is hard to miss. Clean, simple lines and sometimes aggressive pursuit geometry, I've ooh-ed and ahh-ed at Marty's frames whenever I've gotten close to one [even though, yes, me + pursuit geometry = instant endo].
Too bad I'm broke. For the second time that day, my skin crawled with the desire for another bike. The most tempting part being Geekhouse's new powdercoating operation, too appropriately named Sugar Coat. While watching Joe spray powder onto a frame from a gun, I learned that they're now offering to powdercoat even non-Geekhouse frames. And with Marty putting together a 'cross team, I'm almost tempted to hand over that San Jose and attempt to pull off the faux Geekhouse 'cross bike look.

Okay, that would be beyond stupid. Still, you can't blame a girl who could never fit on a Bareknuckle to want a bubble-gum pink bicycle at some point [and just between you and me, I desperately wanted a pink track bike before I realized no one makes such a bicycle in my size]. True, the tank of a San Jose might not be the bike for that, but you know, it might just work.

At least until I have the cash money to throw down on a real Geekhouse frame.