weekend warrior

I suppose, in a way, that it was completely appropriate to be feeling up a roadie's legs last weekend.
Actually, I felt up two different sets of legs, and the hard substance that the denim was covering up was foreign enough to have me almost groping. In a totally platonic way, though, and we were all doing it.

It wasn't completely out of context; the season is already under way for those on proper teams and for the Cat 1 and 2 whose legs I prodded, groped, and pushed, their legs are fueling up while their cyclocrossing counterparts have peaked, raced, and sprayed down their bikes one last time until fall. But all in that in-between phase where sitting on a couch for two hours without feeling guilty about it is permitted, roadies, 'cross fanatics, and even those like me who don't fall anywhere on that scale, were collected around a TV on Sunday morning.

Because the Cyclocross World Championships was showing. And because NYC Velo promised yummy baked goods and freshly pulled shots of rich, dense espresso.
Which is why I was in NYC in the first place...for the fourth weekend in a row. But while fun is never lacking in the city, like those times when you've fully given up on finding anything worth dating and something perfect walks in the door and hands you their number, weirdly cool things happen when you're not really expecting it. Like learning how to slip a number to a guy who's attached, what hand-pulled beer tastes like, how hard a Cat 1 can punch, and debating the expected ROI on a Diet Coke. Saturday night, Andy was buying first rounds at d.b.a., and totally comfortable about partying on his dime, I had my first Diet Coke in the city with the guys who purposely mis-pronounce my name when I'm in Boston and are under the impression that I'm about the size of a Pomeranian.

And Sunday, we were back at it; this time I came loaded with vegan peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, Andy with espresso and these giant bombs of non-vegan delicious from Birdbath Bakery. Marco even showed up with donuts, which assured that everyone would be in insular shock by noon.
And on a sugar and espresso high, I even met a few twitter friends, met up again with some Rapha Continental riders, and dropped some cash on a cycloputer [my first!], all before I fought through Chinatown to get on a bus back to Boston. Sitting in an old, slightly dirty, crammed bus, I was wired and tired. Somehow, though, I managed to fall asleep, dreamed of bicycles...and woke up near Boston, where schoolwork awaited [sigh].
...Is it the weekend yet?

bottled martinis

Having realized that Dragonforce in the morning can only get you so far on the rollers, I have shamelessly embraced Hulu like a fat kid clutches onto his prized sack of Halloween candy. Somehow, when you're on the rollers and the sun hasn't come out yet, it's perfectly okay to start your day with a little House M.D., even if that means you're going to get to school barely in time for your 10am class.
It was on one of those sweat sessions with Hulu that I came across a commercial for the Smirnoff Pomegranate Martini. Prepackaged vodka, pomegranate juice, and Meyer lemon liqueur, the voice-over guaranteed "the perfect cocktail with every pour." I almost stopped pedaling in horror.
Because, like most things, when you get used to the real thing [or even just the better thing], it's hard to....well, downgrade. What to a college student might seem convenient and palatable becomes, after a few real cocktails, a cheap attempt at bottled class that shouldn't be touched with a ten foot pole. Call me a snob, but if given the choice between Smirnoff Pomegranate Martini and Natty Light, I'd probably go for the latter. At least the frat boy beirut beer of choice isn't trying to pretend it's something other than what it really is [i.e., shitty beer].

And the same goes for bikes and the people who ride them. Though I'm capable of standing over M1's Cyfac, I've refused to ride it in part due to the full C-Record gruppo. It's not because I might crash it [although, due to my clumsiness, that's a very real possibility], it's because I know I'll never forget how it feels. And with a wallet that lacks a third dimension these days, whatever gruppo I may be able to afford won't be anything close to Campy. It's like driving a Lamborghini and then spending the rest of your life comparing it to the late model Hyundai you're currently stuck driving. There's no rational reason for you to do that to yourself.
As for the people, well, they can raise the bar quite a bit as well. Take a handful of experienced cyclists that will easily clock in 200 miles per week and have negative body fat and suddenly hauling a single-speed on the occasional 40 miler becomes embarrassingly pathetic. It's not that they look down on my feeble attempts at cycling; in fact, they do the opposite. But despite their predictable immaturity [they are all guys] I still look up to them, and they unconsciously have me striving for higher goals this winter.

And I don't just mean in the cycling sphere. Though I'm not into poaching my circle of friends for potential husband material, those seemingly irrational requirements for the ideal significant other have gone from "someone who rides a bike" to "someone who has less than 4% body fat, rides at least 200 miles a week, preferably year around, knows how to fix their bikes, will tolerate my roller coaster mood swings, has a solid sense of humor, isn't completely useless, falls on the smarter side of the scale, and oh did I mention is also swooningly hot?" I know, I ask for a lot [but please, I have a lot to offer, now, don't I? Kidding!]. Blame my frustratingly competent friends but I've been around too much of the real thing these past few months. And between classes, exhaustion, and the rollers, I realized that - though well aware that I may never be able to keep up with those friends on a bicycle - I'll be damned if I'm going to downgrade.
It's like realizing that you're spinning out at your gearing; at which point, why would you switch to a bigger cog [or a smaller chainring]? Okay, there's that whole "because it could kill your knees" which in relationship-speak translates to "because you'll end up a spinster with 20 bikes and 30 cats." Touche. But I'll be a spinster with 20 bikes and 30 cats and still be keeping it real.

Sound irrational? Then go to a real bar, [swallow your insecurities concerning your sexuality...you're a cyclist for God's sake, you should be comfortable with the accusations by now] and order a appletini or whatever fruity martinis they might be offering. Savor it. Then pick up a bottle of Smirnoff Pomegranate Martini at your local liquor shop on your way home. Try to actually drink it [without hurling].
Doesn't seem so irrational now, does it?

purty pictures

Because pictures [of pretty bicycles] are worth ten million words. And because I'm up to my eyeballs in work these days.

The Dolan is officially NYC Velo's Bike of the Week [a.k.a. BOTW]. Check out the rest of their flickr sets for bikes that are [arguably] way prettier than mine.

drowsy downtown

When I first arrived in Boston, with no friends or knowledge of the city, my best friend directed me to Newbury Street. It's no New York, she cautioned, but it would at least be something to do/see.
She was right. On both points. The long stretch of Newbury Street made for good people watching and a lazy afternoon spent outside. It was distracting enough, but given the long stretch of storefronts, there wasn't much to discover. Side streets didn't lead to the kind of stores you only tell your closest girl friends about. They mostly just led to shittier streets.

It wasn't until I got on a bike and rode down Newbury for the first time that I realized exactly how distracting it is. Because when you're searching for a store [on the lower level of a building, nonetheless], it makes it that much difficult to dodge doors, avoid pedestrians, and impatient wealthy people who would rather run you over and settle the subsequent wrongful death suit than actually slow down. Given that other than strolls around the Public Garden or the Boston Common, I don't find hanging out or cycling in the city very exciting or entertaining, I actually try to avoid the city. Besides, it's flat. Just thinking about it makes me yawn.
But lest readers think that all I do is push the pedals indoors, I ventured outside yesterday. And taking the familiar yet still foreign path downtown and onto Newbury Street, I was slightly optimistic. Cities are supposed to be fun! Shopping is fun [even if it doesn't involve bicycles]! Boston can be fun!

I kept chanting that to myself as I passed unremarkable scenery, boring buildings, and didn't even get to experience the excitement of trying not to get run over. If it wasn't for the wind, it almost felt like my morning roller session where my legs are on autopilot after 15minutes and my mind is off in other universe.
Newbury delivered, however, in the form of double-parked cars, unpredictable drivers, and doors popping open left and right. But too used to the usual suspects, it still wasn't very exciting. Nearly asleep at the handlebars, I suppressed a yawn as I pedaled away from the city towards a place that, while more familiar than downtown Boston, was guaranteed to be a lot more interesting.

It involves bicycles, but you knew that already. But Superb is worth ogling at every opportunity; especially when they're carrying some delicious-looking Igleheart track frames. Emblazoned with both the Igleheart logo on the fork and the Superb logo on the frame, it's a good thing that the smallest size available - which comes in a beautiful purple that I'm pretty sure will complement my existing stable of single-speed ponies - is a 48 [and therefore too big for Asian Short Legs over here].

But it's not just the bicycles. Catching up with Wei Wei is always entertaining to say the least, and I even got to see the new shop clock, made by Tom himself [yes, that is a Campy chainring]. Apparently he plans to make another one to hang from his neck. I think that's a brilliant idea.
Boston can be boring and predictable. But it's the things like Superb that make me glad I started cycling in this city.
[Special edition Rapha Scarf Friday with the man who started it himself!]

centerfold champions

When significant others fail become less significant, I do what [I'd like to think] most others do: stuff all objects/memories/gifts/pictures associated with said person into some kind of receptacle [not the trash, though, apparently newly broken hearts like to cling not purge] and place it somewhere it can be easily forgotten.
Months later, I'll come upon it [I'm really good at forgetting where I put things], and heart fully healed and going strong, that receptacle of stuff is consistently greeted with a feeling of mild annoyance. What the hell am I supposed to do with this now?
That's the feeling that greeted me this past weekend. Fresh out of the MPRE [and somewhat grateful that I didn't go on the IF ride that was done at the "leisurely" pace of 29mph] and finally managing to do my laundry, the state of my dresser drawers was shameful to say the least. What am I doing with all these t-shirts? Where did they come from? When did this drawer become overstuffed with so much stuff?

So it was time for the annual spring/summer to fall/winter switch. More New England-appropriate clothing was pulled out and [folded neatly, I might add] replaced the gazillion t-shirts I own. But I'm a sucker for soft, short-sleeved things so while winter is right around the corner, I have to admit, a few key shirts will linger in my dresser until next spring. Right next to the Underarmour that I've been wearing religiously.
Of course, much like that feeling of "oh shit, did I throw away that awesome mix CD that hottie-cyclist gave me in that ex-boyfriend-schwag-bag by mistake?!" I started having doubts about so many long-sleeved items taking up valuable dresser drawer real estate. Because upon opening the December issue of Bicycling Magazine, even if snow wouldn't be out of the question in a few weeks, t-shirts are still very, very in.

Okay, fine, I admit, I'm completely biased. BECAUSE CASSETTE IS IN BICYCLING MAGAZINE!!!!!!!!!!1111111111!!!1111!111!!! Featured prominently in teal is none other than our "I heart Cassette" shirt. The first cassette shirt I claimed as soon as printing was complete, the original drawing of the derailleur [and the Campy-esque Cassette logo] is tacked up on my wall [along with the original drawing for the "Breakfast of Champions" shirt]. It was actually the first ever cassette design as well; and one that turned out to be an unexpected favorite. I initially feared that its simplicity would work against it; then it showed up...in print.
Ahem. I mean, not just any print publication, but BICYCLING MAGAZINE. One word of advice, though: don't be fooled by the model's rendition of "Blue Steel." This t-shirt is not only made for the super-hip, beautiful people in cycling. I mean, the people wearing cassette shirts right now are super-hip and beautiful, but it's not an exclusive group. Well, you know, as long as you can ride a bicycle.

The December issue of Bicycling isn't just worth checking out BECAUSE CASSETTE IS IN IT. The "I heart Cassette" shirt is paired with none other than Outlier's Climber pants [and that's a huge compliment in itself]. There's the NYC Velo espresso machine shirt on the facing page [you can go see that beauty in person at the shop], and a few pages later, on the page facing the male model with more eyeliner than all the band members of My Chemical Romance combined, is the infamous Greg Lemond shirt by Gage & Desoto. There's even a multi-page ad by Rapha - beautifully done with that distinctive finesse as per the usual - and a mention by Editor-in-Chief Loren Mooney about "bike lusting at NYC Velo."
I'm excited. Stoked, actually. I might even be proud of myself. And while the weather here in Boston gets increasingly suckier, I mentally patted myself on the back for keeping my cassette shirts in my dresser. Because unlike memories contained in ex-boyfriend-schwag bags, this summer and all the things that came with it, are worth remembering - and keeping - for a lifetime.

a superb elite [party]

It's Friday night, and there's a hand sneaking in between my legs. Fingers brush my inner thigh as I squeal and giggle.
I wasn't tipsy at all. Just a little drunk off adrenaline from the Superb Grand Opening party.
I had cleared my schedule weeks in advance for this party [and not only because cassette was a sponsor]. With a Fuji Feather being given away, who wouldn't? But there was also the promise of "fraternaliz[ing] with Boston's cycling elite." And knowing Superb was going to fully deliver on that promise, it's a party I wasn't going to miss.

Arriving close to an hour after the doors opened, the place was already packed. Bikes lined both sides of the new shop, and people had spilled out onto the sidewalk. Squeezing our bikes into a narrow open space and locking them up, M1 and I ran into none other than Mr. Igleheart, the awesomely friendly framebuilder behind those delicious bikes that "ride like butter" [I wasn't kidding when I told him that I was saving up for one of his frames]. And as I turned around, ready to elbow my way into the shop, I waved hello to Marty of Geekhouse. This was going to be a really good party.
Inside, people swirled around the central display of bikes underneath the chandelier. There was a wave and thumbs up exchange between myself and Tyler of IF, an introduction to James of Revolution Bicycle Repair [he and M1 worked downtown together back in the day], and quick hellos to Croth and Kip. Lucas Brunelle was sighted, as was Joe of Sugar Coat and Geekhouse, and of course, all the hot Asian girls of Cambridge Bikes. Jason, the mastermind behind Superb, clearly delivered on his promise, and more.

Good beats streamed from the speakers as people moved around the room. Stepping outside to check on our bikes and cool off, another Boston cycling persona, Natasha of Pedal Power Photography, rolled up. In great company, we checked out the array of bicycles entered into the "Hot Bike Contest." The contestants varied from a slick Specialized to a swoon-worthy vintage Pinarello pursuit frame with a tri-color, glittery paint job. While I regretted not riding the Dolan in, even with its new fall/winter 2009 look [coming soon!], a part of me knew that it probably wouldn't have stood a chance with this kind of competition.
But I did take part in another kind of contest: $3 got Team Cassette 5 tickets into the raffle. With fingers crossed that we'd win something a Fuji Feather, we checked out the rest of the prizes and ate up some of Jason's time before we reluctantly headed out the door for a friend's birthday party. It was early, the party was still in full swing, but I didn't feel lame leaving. Superb tends to have that effect; there's no insecure pre-judgment of those who walk in the door, but you better be prepared to walk out feeling not only cooler but also like you've just managed to infiltrate Boston's decidedly unpretentious cycling elite.

Which would explain the big smile on my face as I rolled away from 842 Beacon Street, despite my early departure. Thighs even pumped harder as we sped around taxis in Friday night traffic, spinning wheels and pedals to the next scheduled event of the night. And on the way, that hand. My palms seared with cold nervous sweat in response.
"Got it," M1 said as he drew up next to me.
I relaxed as we surged up a hill - no longer needing to hold a motionless line - mashing en danseuse on the pedals, secure in the knowledge that the Knog Beetle on my seatpost was now diligently blinking red.
[More pictures of the event here.]