dovering in

I hate to admit it but I've reached that all too familiar impasse with my usual ride to Arlington. Like that feeling of slight disappointment mixed with guilt you feel when you're hanging out with a really nice person and you try to make a sarcastic joke and they respond with a small frown and the statement, "aww, that's not nice." So to avoid sounding evil and mean you shut the hell up but end up bored out of your mind because walking on eggshells is as socially pleasant as choking on a fork. And eventually you end up avoiding the friend - or in this case, the ride - because they just make you feel bad about yourself and how "not nice" you are.
Truly nice people tend to be extremely boring, but that's not the point here.
The point is that I needed something different. Something interesting that would stroke my ego a bit. Kind of like the gay bitchy queen friend that every girl really should have. And I found it this past weekend. In, of all places, Dover, MA.

The route I took was given to me by a Rapha Conti rider months ago, but slightly intimidated by it all, I sat on it for a while. Back then, I was still hopeful that the ride to Arlington could keep me interested; people always say how nice it is to ride out there. There was no way - I thought - that this ride and I wouldn't get along.
But my interest started to fizzle and fade, and when M1 offered to recon a new ride with me last weekend, I dove in.
Being immediately suspicious of the hype that tends to surround extremely charismatic people, I braced myself for a bit of disappointment. Cyclists in Boston always talk about Dover and how awesome it is to ride out there. But like attractive people with little inner content, maybe, I thought, it was a boring ride with pretty scenery. Maybe it'll only keep my attention for a few weekends, and it'll be back to sweating over rollers because the whole outdoor cycling thing just wasn't doing it for me.

For once, though, I was elated to be wrong. The thing about Dover is that it's actually interesting. A good mix of flat terrain broken up with the occasional hill or two, and streets that are to Boston asphalt what Belvedere is to the stuff that comes exclusively in plastic handles. It's the boy you're staying up too late talking to about how awesome Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go is, not the one you just sort of like to look at but can't talk to because he just doesn't get your jokes.

Don't get me wrong. That doesn't mean that the ride isn't absolutely stunning. It's gorgeous, and then some. The narrow road is surrounded by incredible skies, fields, and farms [we passed Chickering Farm with a sign that stated it was established in 1690!]. A beekeeper was tending to his buzzing workers as we slid by, and horses looked at us curiously. It was amazing.
And because a ride is never complete without some kind of sugar-laden something, we stopped by Abbott's in Needham for frozen custard. Deliciously cold and gooey, it was like frozen yogurt and ice cream had a love child and offered it up to my growling stomach. It hit the spot, and was just sweet enough to power us through the brief rain shower on the way back home.

If my Dover ride was a real person, I'd be swooning over its sheer perfection. Just my luck that it isn't, because I really hate to share.

the search for speculoos

I never thought that chasing a wafel would end with me falling in love with a cookie.
And for once, that's no euphemism.
A few months ago, on a rainy July day, I chased down the Wafels & Dinges truck for the first time. Catching up with it in midtown, eagerly eying the menu, I thought I knew exactly what I wanted. But something caught my eye; a mysterious topped called "speculoos" and marked as the Wafels & Dinges favorite. A simple query led to the presentation of a small, cinnamon-y cookie; and while M1 and I ended up opting for Nutella on our wafel, the enigmatic cookie lingered on both tongue and mind.

A little research led to more information on the spiced cookie; known in the Netherlands as "speculaas" and in Belgium as "speculoos." A cookie associated with St. Nick's Eve (December 5th in the Netherlands and December 6th in Belgium), they are easily identified by the bas-relief image usually pressed into the dough. Seemingly ubiquitous in Belgium, I had never seen the infamous Lotus brand of speculoos anywhere in the US.
But God bless Google. Because a little rummaging led me to none other than Walgreens where Lotus brand speculoos have been rebranded as Biscoff. Yum.

Still, the growing Belgophile in me wanted authentic speculoos. But a reliable source assured me that artisanal speculoos was impossible to get in this country. So in an attempt to achieve the culinary equivalent of the next best thing, I rolled up my sleeves, printed out a recipe, and got to work with the aid of a trusty partner.

Crisp and sturdy, these cookies aren't delicate things that you might carefully pack in a box to prevent them from shattering. They're hard enough to surprise the unsuspecting but absolutely delicious with coffee. Thrown in a ziplock bag, they'll easily fit into a jersey pocket for a mid-ride snack, and with this recipe making so many cookies, there's even enough to pass around at your favorite bike shop.
I'm not done experimenting with this recipe, but here's one for starters...
Speculoos Adapted from this recipe. [We accidentally added too much flour and managed to pull together the dough with the addition of yogurt and water. No negative consequences seemed to result but feel free to opt out of using the yogurt and just watch how much flour you're adding.]
Ingredients: 500g or 4 cups all-purpose flour 150g or 2/3 cup unsalted butter at room temperature 1 egg 300g or 1 1/2 cups of dark brown sugar 2 teaspoons cinnamon 1 teaspoon ground ginger 1/2 teaspoon cloves Pinch of salt 1 1/2 tablespoons Greek style yogurt 3 tablespoons water
[Makes about 50 cookies]
1. Preheat the oven to 180C/360F 2. In a food processor or stand mixer, mix the butter, sugar, salt, spices, and egg until it comes together. Transfer into a bowl if you are using a food processor. 3. Mix in the flour in batches by hand and knead the dough until it comes together. Use the Greek yogurt thinned with water if you add too much flour and it doesn't seem to be coming together. 4. Divide the dough into two and place one portion onto a piece of parchment paper. Roll it out to a 5mm or 1/4 inch thickness. If you aren't using speculoos molds [we weren't], cut out the cookies into narrow rectangles. 5. Use a knife or spatula to transfer the cookies onto a lined cookie sheet. Bake for 12-15 minutes [the center will still be slightly soft when done]. 6. Cool on a rack on the parchment paper. Repeat. Eat.

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.]

keirin diet

The first time I saw a pair of rollers under someone, I was too interested in horses to remember much of it.
It was on a Japanese TV show featuring an array of late teens and twenty-somethings who were venturing out into interesting careers. A jockey and a keirin racer were featured together; and having dreamed of getting my own exercise jockey license for years, I mostly ignored the keirin racer. Even when he was perched on rollers, playing video games because the next four hours of boredom would kill him otherwise, I was way more interested in the small, slight man who couldn't eat and raced on horses.
Of course, I ended up on a bicycle, not a thoroughbred.

Still, being broke-ass poor means I'm eating more like a jockey. Okay, I'm not throwing up my food [too wasteful, sorry] or only eating 12 almonds for lunch [apparently that's what they do...go watch "Jockeys," it's amazing]. But even with the pounds I want to shed, the thought of surviving through winter on rice cakes is a little daunting. What the hell am I going to do when finals hits like a fucking hurricane and the only thing in my pantry is a can of beans? Don't even get me started on how I'm supposed to stay on the rollers on that kind of diet, either.
Enter my mother, who, after having disparaged me of being fat for the past 23 years, decided she'd rather have a zaftig daughter than an anorexic one. Okay, she cares and worries about me, too. And though we don't have that giggly girly mother-daughter relationship, we both think weird things are pretty awesome.

Case in point: [pre-packaged] Yokosuka Navy Curry. It says "Navy Blue," which is obvious. That also scares me...does "navy blue" refer to some sort of flavor? What exactly does "navy blue" taste like? Is the curry actually going to be navy blue?
I'm pretty sure my Mom sent this care package - stuffed with rice crackers, cookies, and about three pounds of soba noodles - mostly to show me this curry. And despite my hesitations, I'm glad she did. Because assuming this isn't navy blue in color, Japanese curry is straight up comfort food; caloric and absolutely delicious.
Keirin racer food, as opposed to the crumbs that make up a jockey's diet. Yeah, my Mom's fucking awesome.

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.]