project interbike

[The last in the series, I promise!]
I never really got into Sex and the City, but I did get into Project Runway.
Lack of TV meant that I would watch it whenever I could with my best friend; hanging out at her place always meant a PR DVD viewing. And for someone actually enjoys staying up until 3am battling drafting paper and French curves, it was awesomely fun.
But when the bike entered my life, fashion sort of fell away. Comfort and the ability to pedal efficiently became a priority. Jeans were traded for shorts or leggings, collared shirts for something I wouldn't mind destroying, and necklaces got neglected as I was sure they would get caught on my bag and break to pieces.

The irony being that even before I got to Interbike, I was obsessed with what the hell I was going to wear. Even if I was assured that it was a convention full of bike nerds in t-shirts.
But come on, this is Vegas! So my little fingers got to work, embellishing an otherwise ordinary white t-shirt into a sequined, Vegas-appropriate, Interbike-appropriate, champion-stripe adorned number. It took a few nights of painful stitching, but once it was done, I was so proud of myself. I was like this is going to be the best t-shirt ever and I totally cannot wait to show my NYC Velo crew!

Of course, when I finally met up with them, their sole excitement stemmed from the opportunity to stand a 5-foot-4-inch short me next to Tyson, a 6-foot-6-inch tall former employee of NYC Velo and current Portland-based Civilian Bikes framebuilder [have you noticed how NYC Velo seems to be the go-to place for talented bike people?]. But yes, the resulting picture [taken by M1] is hilarious [also, my shoes were killing me].

What's also funny is that while I had mentally scrunched my nose at wearing t-shirts throughout Interbike, I did exactly that, like every other bike nerd in attendance. But, unlike every other bike nerd, NYC Velo and M1 kept it very interesting.
First, there was the NYC Velo x Jeremy Fish shirt worn by Brett. Then there was the new stem-cap design shirt worn by none other than Mr. A. Crooks. And in a stroke of creative genius [paired with some late-night printing] was the Shimura shirt.

I'm actually not as flat as that picture makes me look. Really. But regardless, that shirt had people actually staring at my chest and doing double-takes. People came up to talk to me about it. I even felt like a mini celebrity when I showed the guys at Shimano, and about three people pulled out their phones to take a picture.
You know when people say dressing the part is half the battle? It totally is.
Because armed with the confidence this shirt was giving me, I managed to drop my dignity and say hello to Garrett Chow of Mash SF...who, despite the fact that we're Facebook friends, I had never met before. You don't need me to tell you this but he's super nice and was somehow not completely creeped out by my stalkerish behavior.

But dressing well and looking good can be exhausting. By the time I boarded my flight back to cold, chilly Boston, I felt just like Brett [and his PRO tanlines]. Still, I promised myself that if I make it out there next year, I'll be sure to try and channel a little more Gary Fisher into my wardrobe...

interbike buffet

Las Vegas is, as everyone knows, very full of sex, strippers, casinos, and buffets.
And for one week in late September, bicycles.
I want to analogize Interbike to sex or strippers, really, I do. But entering into the Sands Convention Center and finding yourself surrounded by fellow bike nerds in t-shirts, shorts, and Tevas is actually not that sexy. The harsh fluorescent light - unlike the dimly lit casinos that seem to whisper and hint at lucky fortunes to be made - kills any sense of mystique. Interbike is not really sexy or enigmatic.

But it is kind of like a Las Vegas buffet.
The spread of booths sprawled under glowing lights, offering a different little something to the people that pass by, is, at first, incredibly overwhelming. And like that initial pause when presented with a plate and 30 different kinds of food, I had no idea where to start. So for the first five minutes I was there, I did the equivalent of gripping my plate to my chest and standing there. And gaping.

Just holding the multi-page map booklet was a little much. I probably would have been paralyzed by confusion if not for the realization that I had to keep pace with Interbike-veteran friends or risk losing them for the rest of the day. It took about 10 minutes for me to dig out my camera and finally start taking pictures. I had no idea what I was doing there.
But I dove in anyway, sampling this and that, peeking and peering into booths and even going so far as to touch an unaffordable bicycle or two. Self-consciousness slowly slipped away and energy boosted by some Clif Shot Roks [the peanut butter ones are incredibly yummy], I was feeling shameless enough to squeal and coo excitedly over Phil Wood's display of cogs, hubs, and bottom brackets. Days later, I'm still trying to digest how incredibly cute their 12T cog is [half of me is attempting to convince the other half that a 46/12 gearing is perfectly reasonable].

And then there were the bicycles. Single-speed Pinarellos, jaw-dropping Pegorettis, latte-like Bianchis, and candy-apple red De Rosas. Colnagos of every shape and size. Monochromatic Kuotas [Floyd Landis included!]. And an eye-popping Geekhouse 'cross bike.

Mixed in between gluttonous inhalations of everything bike, friends were also sought out. Tracking down Jason at the Shimano booth, we managed to bump into James who emptied the contents of his pockets into my eager hands [more on that later] before winding our way to where Marty was hanging out. And as far as I could tell, we were all shamelessly indulging in everything Interbike had to offer.

But like the curse of buffets, Interbike can really only be fully appreciated in hindsight. Even with two full days in Vegas, I jetted away towards my colder city on Friday with lingering thoughts of "Man, I wish I had spent more time at..." and "Crap, I forgot to go to..."

Until next year, maybe. And while I'll miss it in the interim, I'm slightly grateful for the year-long wait. Because like the buffet I shamelessly ate on Wednesday night, it's going to take a little while to fully recover from Interbike.
[Pictures here...and more on Interbike later...]

wafelocross

I [fortunately?] have a few friends who have enough social influence to enable them to drag me out to events I have no desire of attending. This usually involves countless excuses on my part, then having said excuses shot down too efficiently and a half-joking ultimatum that not going would entail the end of our friendship. And this always involves rearranging my whole entire weekend schedule to make up for lost time.
So while I might actually wake up the next day, mascara smeared all over my eyelids, and concede that I was glad that I went out, that's not to say that the rest of the weekend won't be stressful. Going out actually makes me scramble out of bed at some absurd hour the next morning, and race to some secluded, quiet spot with my books for the rest of the weekend. I like to save myself the resulting panic and just putz away at whatever I have to do over the entire weekend, including Friday night.

One main reason that while friends in NYC were planning their first ever NYC Velo Cyclocross Season Kick-off event, I resolutely reasoned to myself that I could not possibly go. I wanted to. Desperately, in fact. But Federal Income Taxation of Corporate Enterprise stared up at me accusingly. It sucked. I just couldn't.
And then I woke up on Saturday in NYC and walked over bright and early to a bike shop milling about with friends and customers, and lucky for everyone in attendance, the Wafels & Dinges truck was there as well.

Inside, shots of espresso were being pulled and 'cross bikes examined. Questions were fielded and directed to a number of seasoned 'cross racers. Cards were exchanged in between bites of bacon-filled wafels. Embrocation and creams tested while talk of how the season went bounced amongst the attendees.
Maybe it was the sugar, but squeezing between new and old 'cross racers alike, there was nothing inaccessibly serious about the whole thing. Well, that's not quite accurate. The only thing really serious about the Kickoff party was the deadpan conviction that practically simmered in those who have discovered the wonders of 'cross that this was the single, most teeth-gnashing fun that you could ever have on a bicycle.

Which would sound slightly creepy if it wasn't for the fact that nearly every single person who races 'cross seems to passionately believe in this. And though cyclists tend to fall on the insane side of psychotic, there's always something to be said for consistency.
The NYC Velo Cyclocross Season Kickoff Party only served to heighten the excitement that seems to be bursting out of those in love with 'cross, just as the season starts to get into gear. And it's infectious, too. Because everyone seems to be talking about cyclocross this year.

If I had the funds and the bike, even I'd be up for embarrassing myself by face-planting in some mud on a cold, autumn New England day. And I'm pretty sure it won't just be for the wafels.
[More pictures of the event here.]

appreciating filth

At lunch with my handful of law school friends, we ended up joking around about how we were convinced one of our professors ate crickets all day [yeah, don't ask]. A girl at the end of the table - one I had never spoken to before - shrugged, saying:
"Well, I bet there's a lot of protein in crickets."
"Yeah, but you can say the same thing about jizz too; doesn't mean both aren't completely disgusting to consume," I responded.

Her jaw dropped as I managed to finally snap mine shut. Oh shit, was I not in a bike shop?
Hang out at a bike shop for long enough and you end up in a blissful bubble of bicycles and jokes that go beyond "dirty" and enter into the realm of "completely socially unacceptable." Loiter constantly at one and you inevitable end up joining in on the crude jokes. Conversations concerning various bodily orifices and fluids become the norm. Nothing is off limits.
Which is a problem [apparently] when you have to go back to the professional graduate school environment of law school.

Not to mention that, on top of all trying to adjust to the school work, classes, and the concept of no free time, the last thing I needed to find out was that my sense of decency was as calloused as my hands. Sure, my go-to group of friends are all male; but that doesn't mean they aren't sometimes staring at me in disbelief. I hate to admit it, but even after a mere three months away, it takes a little time to adjust to social situations in which I'm actually the most obscene mouth around, not the least.
So, mindful of the company I'm in, I've been trying to keep things civil, muting my inner sailor while minimizing human contact. I feel like a fish out of water.

But just when I was trying to come up with a bike part or accessory that would lead me into the comfortable depths of a bike shop, and consequently the warm embrace of inappropriate jokes, an email popped into my inbox. Subject line: "quote of the day..."
"...from Brett..." it continued. Sent from inside a bike shop, I was immediately crinkling my nose is disgust. But smiling too. It's good to know [at least some] bike people share my disgustingly crude sense of humor.

undeniably superb

My love of bike shops is no secret; I'll stubbornly stand in cleats around bike stands, even with a knee that's throbbing and begging me to sit down, to kill time with the best mechanics around, whether in NYC or Boston.
I never thought, though, that I'd have the opportunity to watch a new bike shop develop from gutted out space to awesome concept shop. But every few weeks since early July, that's exactly what I've been doing at a particular spot on Beacon Street.
Yup, that's right. It's open. Superb, that is.

I've hinted at it. I've posted a few vague pictures. I even designed a t-shirt for the shop! But renovations were still going underway at that point, and despite my itchy fingers desperately seeking to post about the shop, I had to resist until it was officially open.
And yeah, it was totally worth the wait.

Back in March when Jason first told me about the new shop, I got excited. But it was that vague kind of excitement where you don't really know what you're getting excited about, just that the person talking to you has some awesome ideas and is actually going to follow through on them. I had no idea what to expect, really, except that the shop colors were going to be gray, teal, and purple.
That drastically changed in July when the real work started in the space formerly known as Boston Bicycle. And as damask was painted onto the walls, new cabinets build, chandeliers installed [possibly my favorite part of the shop], and a fainting chair assembled, my constant exclamations of "oh my God, this is AWESOME!" started sounding almost lame.

Because honestly, it's such an understatement. "Awesome" doesn't do justice to a shop that's clearly been well thought out, and executed with even more care. Stocked with cassette and Gage & Desoto t-shirts [I'm not biased, I promise], vintage jerseys, narifuri bags [possibly the only place you can get these babies in Boston], Phil Wood deliciousness, and Campy peanut butter wrenches, Superb is living up to its name. Add to that a bike inventory that is limited to steel frames [geared and otherwise] and you have a concept shop that has really good taste.

But that doesn't mean that it's inaccessible. Like its brainparent, Jason, Superb is - while almost intimidatingly hip - quietly confident, courteous, and perhaps most importantly [for a bike shop], non-judgmental. Everything from hybrids to track frames walk through the door; drawn to the velodrome display window or just to get a flat fix. And on one recent visit to Superb, a customer paused before heading out with a properly inflated tire:
"You guys did a little rearranging, huh?"
We all blinked. Yeah, you could say that.

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.