if i had an if...

I've mentioned this before, but I think it bears repeating: when you come from a "tribe of midgets" as my mother once described our immediate family to a much-taller cousin, it's hard to find a bike that fits.
Being a smidge over 5'2", I'm too tall for the 43cm bikes that come with 650cc wheels but too small for anything on 700cc wheels with a horizontal top tube. In that gray, in-between area, I'm placed in the unfortunate position of choosing between the two. Add to that the fact that I'm a woman, new to road cycling, and Japanese, and the decisions to be made when purchasing that just-right road bike can get more frustrating than fun.
Sure, a lot of bike manufacturers now have entire lines of women's specific bikes, in sizes starting from 44 to 49cm, usually designed with slighter shorter top tubes and seat tubes than their unisex counterparts. The woman that these bikes are generally designed for is one with longer legs and a shorter torso than her male counterparts; valid considerations for your typical non-Asian cyclist. But if you have shorter legs and a longer torso like I do [think E.T. but with normal length arms], going for a unisex, smaller frame could provide the better fit.

The problem then becomes finding a bike that's small enough, made from the material you want it to be made from, and, if you're as unreasonable as I am, in colors that you can tolerate [personally, this tolerance is inversely and exponentially related to the cost of the frame or bicycle]. The first two considerations are obviously the more important ones, and ones that required the most leg work because while I'd ridden steel and aluminum, neither bike had gears, nor involved rides longer than 40 miles. I didn't know what carbon felt like, what aluminum with a carbon back triangle felt like, or how smooth high-end steel can be. I called a dozen bike shops about road bikes they might have in my size, I rode a bunch around the block, rode a few a little longer than that, asked an endless train of questions, tried Sram, re-tried Campy, and ended up trusting my countrymen in deciding that I liked the ubiquitous yet reliable Shimano, best.
Now that I got the shifting down, I just needed a bike.
You'd think finding a smaller road bike with Shimano wouldn't be so hard. You'd think that, wouldn't you? Especially with all the women's options out there?
Except for...well, a lot of things. Back in May, Andrew had measured my height [this is when I discovered I was more 5'2 than 5'3], had me wedge this wooden L-shaped ruler between my legs to measure standover height, and hold the end of the tape measure where my collarbones meet. I stood around the small stage at the back of NYC Velo in my socks [we had to measure my height without shoes on, which is more accurate and close to reality but which I also think is fundamentally unfair], and was asked questions about my weight, the kind of riding I do, and the kind of riding I would want to do with a road bike. Andrew sent the deets to IF a few days later, and a few days after that I got to see a custom frame spec'd to my measurements, and about two weeks after that, I balked.

I'll admit that it wasn't just the impending bar exam that got in the way. There was sticker shock, too. The realization that I was going to put down kind of a lot of money for a custom frame and fork scared me. I had never ridden an IF at that point, and the chances of me finding one close enough to my size were slim to none. In the face of the unknown, [at least I could ride, say, a Felt ZW5] I couldn't commit.
But a few months post-bar, there was a sparkly green demo 47cm Independent Fabrication Steel Crown Jewel built up with Dura Ace hanging from the ceiling of the shop. Offered for a test ride, I took it up River Road and back and, unfortunately, fell in love. I tried to tell myself it was the Dura Ace that made the ride so smooth, that it was entirely in my head that the steel bike felt light, and that I should seriously consider carbon. But there was something about the way everything worked together, how the frame complemented its parts and the entire thing seemed to want to roll out and keep on going. As a complete derailleur novice, the versatility of the Crown Jewel appealed to me as well: it could be raced, ridden for hours on end, or taken out for quick spins. There was a lot of potential in that frame, but most importantly, despite the fact that it was too big for me, it felt really good.

The toe I dipped in the welcoming warmth of the IF pool was the end of my deliberating. I didn't admit it to myself for another few weeks, but once I had ridden that IF, the bikes I test-rode seemed...not that great in comparison. Still, I wanted to be 100% sure. I emailed Kevin at IF too many times, asking too many really long-winded questions, and every single time, he seemed more than happy to explain things and even offered to take a look at my current bike fit via photos. He said something like, "I understand this is big decision," and I wanted to hug him. I gave the okay a few weeks later.
And now here we are. It's been about 4 weeks, and with an approximate turn around time of 6-8 weeks, my bike is on the horizon. Actually, it's already been "born," so to speak, and the sheer thought of having an IF all to myself has me giggling like a 13 year old with a crush. I can't wait. It's going to be awesome.
More updates coming [very, very] soon!

bella biciclette

For a smaller city, Boston has its fair share of good bike shops. As a semi-crazed law student looking for distraction in the form of bike porn, I've hung out at quite a few shops...and made some pretty awesome friends in the process.
One shop that I clearly love above all others in this city is Superb. Managed by the always-stylish Jason, Superb was one of two places [the other being Cafe Fixe] that I could go to even in the psychological whirlwind of studying for the bar. At Superb, there's guaranteed to be new stuff to see, good company, and fun times.
Which sort of sucks because 1. Superb's having an awesome event this Saturday and 2. I won't be able to go.

Called "Bella Biciclette," Superb is hosting an exhibit of vintage 70s, 80s, and 90s bicycles, all of which will be on sale. An RSVP-only event, formal dress is also encouraged...which chafed even more because I LOVE getting dressed up for [bike-related] events. There's even a "hot bike" contest which I would totally be eligible for because I didn't enter in last year's. Argh!
My self-pitying aside, this is something definitely worth checking out. RSVP, go, and report back!
More deets at Superb...

goodbye to the rapha cycle club

I bounced down the stairs, my just barely covered feet soundlessly skipping down the smooth stone stairs, shoes in one hand, the other alternately hovering over the banister and pinning the Rapha bonk bag, borrowed from Mike, to my hip. A thought occurred to me that I might very well crash head first into one of Mike’s neighbors given that I was stealthily flying down the stairs but I arrived on the first floor without so much as a self-conscious hello. On the first floor, one shoe in each hand, I hopped on one foot, then the other, securing shoes onto feet. One last look and sigh at the bonk bag - it obviously didn’t match - and I pushed open the door to the windy yet humid night.
Once outside, I teetered down three final steps, feeling slightly awkward and embarrassed. I paused for a moment, pretending to look inside the borrowed bag, and fixing my hair. I was in black, three-inch stilettos, a short, black pencil skirt, which, I’d discover by the end of the block, was a size too big, and a blue and pink patterned silky shirt. I had earrings on, and it was the first time in forever that I’d cleaned up, dressed up, and put on lipstick.
But given the occasion, I felt it was appropriate. It was Thursday night, the last day of the month of September, and we were all saying goodbye to the Rapha Cycle Club.

For the past few weeks, Mike had informed me of possible plans for the closing party, but it had always seemed somewhat surreal. Like my denial that summer was over about three weeks ago, it seemed like the Rapha Cycle Club would still be there, even after September 30, 2010. I would be able to just drop in, say hello to regulars like Ben [of the babelicious BH-Garneau team]and Fritz, get some killer Americanos made by RJ, and make fun of Cassidy. It was a place I occasionally ate lunch, watched the Vuelta, parked my bike before weekend rides, and met up with Mike after I got out of work. But in the last few weeks of September, it seemed much more than the collection of my admittedly shallow experiences. It had been a place that, within its short life span, had simultaneously drawn in seasoned cyclists and converted others into cycling fans. It was a place that elicited exclamations of disappointment by more than a handful of people that they hadn’t discovered it sooner, as well as hopeful suggestions by regulars that maybe Rapha could keep it open for just a few more months. On paper, it was a large pop-up shop with a coffee shop and two huge flat screen TVs. But in that huge space, at that large, glass-topped table or in the spaces between the racks of jerseys and shorts, we all seemed to find exactly what we had been looking for.

And too soon, it was 7pm on Thursday, September 30th. I strode down the block [it’s impossibly to simply walk in stilettos], across the street, and over two doors to the glow of the Rapha Cycle Club. Half the table had been pushed against the wall, Bryce was DJing near the cash register, and the broom wagon had been converted into the bar, the kegs tucked neatly inside and served in appropriately pink cups. Bikes were stacked two rows deep against the wall, and familiar faces swum among unfamiliar ones, all bordered by white t-shirts [hand-screened by Mike] stating “R <3 NY.”
Judging by the attendance, it seemed like NY loved Rapha too. The cyclists that you’d want to show up to your event to legitimize its authenticity were all in attendance, including Ben, Bravo, Sam, and CJ. [Kyle] Peppo showed up a little time later along with DS and Andy, while a fair number of girls balanced out the Y chromosomes in the room. Skull Krusher regaled us with hilarious stories, as always, and people kept seeping into the room. We talked about injuries, recent crashes, racing, when I’m going to get that road bike, and, sometimes, what was going to happen after the party - and the NYC Rapha Cycle Club - was over.

Maybe we all didn’t believe it, or maybe we wanted to be part of a really good send-off, because I’m pretty sure all of us had a lot of fun that night. The fact that we were losing a safe haven where we could watch the Tour and the Vuelta, watch movies on Wednesday nights, and sip coffee before taking off for a mid-week group ride, was put off until Friday morning. For the moment, we sipped beer out of plastic cups, laughed with friends, and swung hips to the beat streaming out of Bryce’s speakers.
When the beer ran out, people drifted outside and then to the after party, mostly by bike, some on foot. I sat on one of the stools, resting legs that weren’t used to walking and standing in such high heels, watching Derrick - the new directeur sportif for Rapha Racing - and Mike make plans for organizing inventory the following morning. I watched, as usual, Mike lock the door and pull down the shutter. We hailed a cab for Bryce, helped load his equipment into the back, then slowly walked home, Mike verbally unwinding the day’s events, sounding relieved that the weather had held, and that so many people had showed up. I nodded, trotting to keep up with Mike’s flat-soled stride, the reality of the closing not sinking in. Not yet, anyway.

A day or so later, I passed the space after work, the shutters down as Mike had finished with inventory for the day. “Glory Through Suffering,” it still said, and I remembered when Mike had gotten the vinyl decals made and rubbed them onto the gray metal. It made me sad, even if it was a little embarrassing to admit such a fact. It wasn’t as if Rapha was gone forever, but I couldn’t resist hoping that I could break in, drag that table to the middle of the room, and make everyone come hang out again. I glanced up quickly, just to make sure that the sign was still hanging outside the space, despite knowing that it would eventually be taken down.
I looked for that sign again, the following day, on the way back from a ride. It was still there, and I held back a sigh, harboring a selfish hope, however distant and unlikely, that maybe they’ll do it again here next year. That maybe Rapha might come back to NYC, and maybe even stay for a little bit longer, with Brett around for the entire thing, this time, so that we can repeat our memories. It was a silly thought [given that chances that it would happen were slim to none], but it seemed something worth hoping for.

triathletes, cockroaches, and 60 miles

I never understood physics. I just didn’t get it; why it was important, how it worked, etc. I’m not talking about advanced physics [that’s in a whole nother world of “I am so confused”], but simple introductory physics. I recall vague examples of energy being transferred from one pool ball to another being involved, and glasses half full of water being swung around and not spilling. That’s about it.
Oh, and one other thing: that a body in motion likes to stay in motion.
At the time I “learned” that rule, I was more concerned with why an inanimate object would have wants or desires [sadly I was the only one that didn’t see the end of any potential career in medicine or science for another two years]. But it’s all coming back to me, slowly but surely, a decade later. Because bicycles and physics are like peanut butter and jelly. They go together and love each other and people really get them together. But to me? I’m feeling like when I was eight years old and choking down PB&J sandwiches at friends’ houses just to be polite and silently gagging. I still apparently don’t get it.

But I’m trying. And that old rule about bodies in motion hit me full force on Sunday when I rolled out of bed after completely passing out at the rockin’ late hour of 11pm. I could barely walk, and with sore legs that didn’t want to fully extend, I crab-walked down the hallway to dive into the bathroom, the need to pee being the only thing that was powerful enough to get me out of bed. Descending the stairs was painful but loosened up tight muscles, the running around before I left NYC behind for Boston aiding in the recovery process.
Recovering from what? From, oh, you know, DOING MY FIRST 60 MILER, EVER. I was so secretly proud of myself, I would have danced after my shower if my quads weren’t struggling to support my weight. After doing a grand total of 20 miles during the week, I got peer pressured into going on the NYC Velo monthly ride, led by Erik of Vice Magazine. Actually, I was asked to be at the shop to help out at 7:30a.m., which apparently means “7:50a.m.” in Velo-speak. I pulled on bibs and a jersey just so I wouldn’t have to climb those damn stairs again, and “helped out” by watching people filter in and talking to people about their bikes. The group that showed up consisted of about 12 or so guys, plus 2 girls [myself included]. The route planned was a brisk 80-miler that skirted the edge of the town I grew up in in New Jersey, but knowing I wasn’t up for throwing down four times the number of miles I’ve done all week on a bike in one day, I told Andrew I would tag along until we crossed the bridge, then do a solo ride up River Road.

So in my head, I imagined a leisurely ride up to the GW Bridge, then the struggle up those two climbs on River Road and an easy ride back on 9W, hopefully in the big ring. My illusions of having the energy to go up River Road crumbled as the group kept what was probably a “leisurely” pace for them, but was uncomfortably close to “balls to the wall” for me. CJ and Erik were at the front of the group, and shot up Riverside Drive with me huffing and puffing, attempting to suck on a wheel but losing it completely.
By the time we got across the bridge, I had the distinct feeling that I had probably blown myself up trying to keep up and that trying to climb up River Road would be suicidal. We were less than an hour into the ride and I was already popping Nuuns into my water bottles [Nuuns are incredibly awesome...you can even break them in half if you have smaller water bottles or you just want to thin it out]. I thought I was off the hook at that point; the planned ride was going up Knickerbocker Road, which is west of 9W. I thought I would be solo cruising.
Until CJ, Chris F., and Stanley decided to go with me. CJ called it the “fat, slow group” while Chris F. referred to it as “the ride for people who have other things to do other than ride all day.” Whatever the ride was called, we spun up 9W, past the Palisades Marketplace, and for the first time ever for me, to Bunbury’s in Piermont. There was a decent climb or two, a muffin split with Chris, some crashing into the woods [not me], and triathletes that piqued CJ’s competitive edge enough to have him decidedly drop me on the way back [the next time I saw him was at the bridge. LOL.].

But holy shit, as sweaty, snotty, and smelly as I felt after I was done, I could only think about doing a 70 miler next time. I was able to come back in the big ring, having at last grasped the concept of shifting gears and how to manage all of them. That’s not to say I wasn’t complaining, I was. When I protested at a climb, David, a friend of CJ’s who we picked up at Bunbury’s told me that I sounded like CJ two years ago.
“Now look at him. He’s a like a cockroach. He won’t go away.”
CJ laughed mid-climb, telling a story about his last Tour of Battenkill which had me laughing despite my labored breathing. An hour later, I was in no man’s land, but it was totally okay; we all start somewhere, and it’s usually off the back. Chris waited up for me, then bombed past me on a descent, shouting as he passed that that’s what 200 pounds looks like [there’s that physics again]. I had no hope of keeping up.
Maybe in two years, though.

rides and needles

I blame my childhood epilepsy for a lot of things: the parental prohibition on engaging in sports, the inability to climb trees and my subsequent complete lack of interest in traveling at any rate faster than a brisk walk. All of which could be explained by simple laziness, but the epileptic seizures and symptoms that quietly vanished along with most of the awkwardness acquired during puberty seemed like a good enough scapegoat. Epilepsy was to blame.
It did, however, teach me how to HTFU. The fact that I had to take medicine to control my seizures meant that I got my arm stabbed with needles every few months for blood tests. I detested them. The needle always seemed larger, wider, and more deadly than it actually was. The heavyset nurse - the nurse was always heavyset, usually with glasses and pale curly hair - would approach to poke a hole in my arm with that silver needle, a rubber tourniquet making my vein swell and pulse. I imagined the tip of the hollow needle as a gaping, sharp metallic tube that was at least 2mm wide. Enough that it couldn’t not hurt, no matter how brave I was. And as the nurse approached, dabbing the pit of my elbow with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol, I drew in a deep breath...and usually screamed.
At eight years old, I would consistently bawl in sheer terror. Given that blood tests happened too frequently to count, my mother probably found it both tiresome and secretly hilarious. By my teenage years, I had learned to contain the tears, holding my breath and looking away, squeezing my eyes shut because if I couldn’t see it, it might not feel so bad. That’s never true, but it helped keep the freaking out in check. Towards the end, I actually looked, and found the way blood gushed into test tubes fascinating. I still couldn’t look, though, when they slid in the needle or when they pulled it out.

It’s been over a decade since I’ve gone in for one of those tests, but the needle and the looking away, the way I could hear my heart beating in my head, and the slow exhalation when the deed was done has been coming back to me these past few days when I’ve managed to drag my butt over the river and to New Jersey. Actually there was more involved, like my loud ragged breathing and frantic spinning while trying not to pass out, and the other day, clinging onto a wheel knowing that that would be the only way I could possibly make it home in one piece.
Caught in the Rapha Wednesday ride a few days ago with Cassidy and Wei “Top Ten” Chen, I had no hope that I could keep up, much less make it to the end of River Road. I had tried the first climb [about a quarter-mile long] a few days before; and actually considered sitting down and nursing my legs at the top. But my solo ride yesterday turned into a group when I caught up with Cassidy and company on the West Side Highway. We were joined later by Matt - who raced with Lang back in Seattle - and Chris 2 from Velo. Our motley crew slid across the bridge and bombed down the sidewalk that leads to River Road, me mostly terrified and trying not to ride my brake but failing miserably. We would group together, then spread out, the faster guys flying down the descents and up the climbs. Hitting the first climb, Matt peeled off to start the climb from the docks on his single-speed. I made it halfway up in the big ring and then spun feebly the rest of the way, getting out of the saddle but staying in the drops the last 10 feet.

We dived down more descents, dodging some nasty potholes, while Chris and Cassidy laughed at how I rode like I was still on a track bike. The final climb appeared almost suddenly. Matt peeled off again to add another quarter mile or so to his climb. I looked up, and I ditched any thoughts of doing any part of it in the big ring.
“Just spin,” Cassidy and Chris advised, making it sound easy although my legs were incapable of moving at such a rapid pace, “and put your hands on the top of the bars.”
I tried, I did. But my body would curl forward like it didn’t want to sit up and the sensation of trying to “spin” in my granny gear but finding that some sort of mashing was also involved to get up a mile long climb was weird, for lack of a better word. The only thing I could hear was my labored breathing and since the jokes had died down, it sounded embarrassingly loud. Cassidy spun beside me, telling me that I was doing great and that I was almost there and I wanted to tell him that he should look into becoming a life coach but nothing would come out. I mostly sputtered, while flip-flopping between the top of the bars and the drops. I think I managed to spit out a rhetorical “seriously?” and even laughed when Wei - who had yet to break a sweat - and Cassidy pushed me up about 10 feet, their hands on either side of my back.
It got harder after that, though. The road curves deceptively, making the disappointment that the climb wasn’t over that much deeper every time I turned a bend. I gave up. Like the time BRC-IF guy paced the hell out of me, I stopped looking. I kept my head low, peeking at the 3 feet in front of my wheel and nothing else. I suppressed hopes that it would end, and just focused on getting up the stupid thing. Not that it made it any easier, but like those all-too-frequent blood tests taught me, in a pinch, not looking/voluntary denial isn’t such a bad strategy.

At the top, I nearly fell over. We stopped for a few minutes for a bathroom break and my feet were doing that thing where they quiver in my shoes. Cassidy suggested we all go up to the Palisades Marketplace, which was only a few miles away. To be honest, if I had been alone, I would have just headed home, but I’m a sucker for peer pressure so we went, Cassidy, Wei, Chris and Matt dragging my wheelsucking ass up there and then back to the city. In hindsight, my choice not to peel off was probably a good thing, as I probably would have died a long, slow death on the side of 9W had I tried to get home by myself [or been victim to the more embarrassing alternative: bonking and cabbing it back to the city].
Back at the Rapha Cycle Club drenched in sweat and crusty, Mike asked me if I would ever do it again, but I couldn’t really think. I just sat and looked at my legs and feet and told him I didn’t know. He asked me how the shorts were, and I remembered I had a new pair of Rapha men’s bib shorts on and thought about how I hadn’t noticed anything on my ride and even how my butt never got sore even though my thighs might be a bit wide for the extra-small. But hey, if I keep riding, they’ll slim down, right?

Well, probably not with the sheer amount of food I ate afterwards. But like I told Mike a later that night, that ride was the hardest thing I’ve ever done on a bike. That’s sort of embarrassing to admit, but the complete ass-kicking I got on Wednesday was also incredibly fun. It made me want a road bike even more [is that even possible?] so I that I could conquer that ride...or at least do it with a little more grace and maybe a tad less sweat.
Eager to fill that void in my life due to a lack of gears, I helped out for a few hours that same night at the shop. I had to cut my visit a day short and hustle back to Boston the following day, sore legs and all, but when I fell asleep Wednesday night, I was hoping I could do that ride again, one more time, before I became gearless again.

work it, girl

“You’re not working on Sunday? Sunday is funday. Sunday we dance around the shop naked.”
Kyle told me this as I leaned on the counter by the cash register at NYC Velo. It was Friday, early afternoon, and my legs were beginning to feel worn down already. A few hours later, I would sit on a couch and realize that the last thing I wanted to do was get up, much less cook dinner, descend five flights of stairs, run some errands, and climb back up those stairs. But for the moment, my knees were just a little uncomfortable, reminding me that although sitting at a desk for 8 hours a day probably isn’t healthy, it was a lot easier than scampering around all day.

With the hopes of working towards a new bicycle, I worked a few hours at the shop this past weekend. I restocked shelves, sold helmets and lights, was asked advice on sizing for someone my height [answer: difficult], mastered the basics of the cash register, ate lunch on my feet, and made fun of Ish. The usual suspects, who I always tend to forget about when I’m stuck at a desk for too long, were in. There was the guy in his early 20s, just getting into the fixie craze and primarily concerned about making his new bike look really flashy. On the hunt for powdercoated Deep Vs and anondized everything, inevitably with a budget too small to build his fantasy bike, I cringed a little remembering my own pink anchor-like rims. Selling those off moved up slightly on my list of priorities.
Next came the [predictably] Japanese tourist bike dorks, murmuring and pointing at the Ellis hanging in the middle of the shop, behind the pretty Vanilla. They bypassed the impressive single-speed, choosing to ogle instead at the geared wonder, and when Justin showed them the electrical shifting, they gasped in unison, and ooh-ed and ahh-ed for a good 5 minutes. It was nerdily endearing, maybe [mainly?] because they were Japanese.

And then, of course, the bike celebs. Saturday evening, John Prolly and John of Two Tone Atlanta [Twitter friend meet up!] swung by on some awesome bikes, then proceeded to molest the Vanilla with their cameras. We talked bikes and the New York State Track Championships taking place at Kissena, and took pictures and tweeted. They hung out for a while, before heading off to check out the Rapha Cycle Club, and when I looked at my watch after they had left, it was almost closing time.

Post-dinner, all I could do was sit with my legs stretched out in front of me, staring dumbly at the calves that felt like heavy clubs. Mike said he was going to hook me up to the Globus he borrowed from Brett, which sounded like a terrible idea. But then again, maybe not, as I woke up Sunday morning with dead legs and that sort of oppressive cloud-like sense of obligation to ride anyway. I did [in the park, nonetheless, which was pretty much like a circus], making my Sunday outside the shop my own fun day [there may have been some RuPaul involved...].
No naked dancing, though. But at least I know where to go to see that on any given Sunday.