candy coated

I have a friend who is the quintessential dude.
Not "dude" as in Big-Lebowski-esque dude, but the frat boy kind that hits the gym twice a day and eats protein bars everyday [which even he agrees taste absolutely disgusting]. He openly admits to feeling weird when he doesn't have at least two beers in both hands, and has a very defined concept of what girls should look like.
Given the fact that I'm no delicate flower in heels and short skirts, in my friend's eyes, I conveniently [and fortunately] fall into that gray area between "guy friends" and "girls I'd hit." Probably closer to the "guy friends" though.
Still, I've noticed that he's the only one out of my group of we-survived-studying-together-for-all-of-1L-year friends [who are all male] to actually still treat me like a girl. Just when I was starting to think I'd achieved "guy friend" status.

But despite the sometimes unasked for and unnecessary advice he might give ["if you want to impress a guy, let him watch the game and bring beer"], it's still sort of nice that someone's picking up on the fact that I'm not a total dude [yet]. I was starting to think that that was limited to bike mechanics and polo friends.
It sometimes results in awkwardness though. Like when a bike mechanic/friend excuses his language before swearing. True, people might not be fully aware that I swear like a sailor but I end up at a loss for words. It makes me start to think that maybe people think I am a delicate flower, not the tank dropping f-bombs.

That's exactly what happened when I picked up some new tires [Halo Twin Rail ones] yesterday at Boston Bicycle. Dan excused his language before he used the word "fuck." As usual, I sort of just blinked and spluttered. Awkward. Still, that didn't keep me from unashamedly dancing around my apartment in happiness and excitement after fitting the aforementioned tires to my pink rim. It's so cute. In all its candy-coated glory.
Maybe I'm starting to accept this whole "being a girl" thing more.

tractorino

Meaning "little tractor" in Italian, it's also a label you stick on a certain type of girl [according to a friend's Italian boyfriend]. You know, the kind that probably can lift as much as the guys and likes to play rugby. The kind that's usually really nice and down to earth but you'd sort of think twice before inviting her out to anything that might require her to wear a dress.
Ever since I learned about the term, I've applied it to others, and avoided the obvious.
And then someone pointed in my general direction and said "tank."
I laughed, awkwardly [while thinking "thanks, now please stfu"]. Okay, granted it wasn't directed at me, per se, but more at the [coincidental] Italian I ride. The tractorino. I mean, it's true, she is a tank/tractor, but she's always been straight, clean lines and sexy curves in my eyes. Being able to ride her over babies, mounds of snow, and most of Boston's potholes without feeling a thing doesn't categorize her as a tank; at least not for me.

But in weather and snow like this, I'm almost glad to be riding a tractorino, rather than the foppishly dandy Brit I'm working on building up. She's tough and reliable, with the added plus of balancing me out. And as the sheer number of fat people with those tiny network laptops at my school has taught me, balance is an important thing.
I think most people passing Cambridge Bikes would also agree. A few weeks ago, Natalya of Pedal Power Photography approached me in the shop and asked if she could take pictures of me "commuting." This involved me pedaling on ice-covered snow [hence why one foot isn't in the toe clip], slowly. I actually stumbled off my bike about 3 seconds after the picture was taken, although Natalya's photo skills make me look a lot more competent than I really am.

I still look ridiculous in my knee high wool socks and shants, but that tractorino's working overtime dealing with ice, snow, and my winter pudge, while simultaneously not looking that ridiculous underneath me.
I call that an impressive feat.

lounging regularly

I spent far too much time this weekend leaning over a particular counter in Allston. I'm working on wearing an indent into that space.
It's, of course, the IBC counter. And it didn't involve anything dirtier than bike grease and some of Herrell's heath bar brownie crumbs. Oh yeah, and chips. Chips are crucial.
Well, so are cookies. At least for the IBC Regular's Lounge that should be installed [mostly for my benefit]. Chris has already promised to fund the eternal cookies-and-chips supply for said lounge. I plan on warming the seats for other regulars. Eric, Erich, Jeremy et al. will be providing endless entertainment [possibly involving blood, even!]. It'll be one of the most coveted lounges in Boston.

To make things even better sweeter, I'd even consider busting out these cups [pictured above, not the other ones] for the really hardcore regulars. I got them in the mail as a late Christmas present from my best friend; they're a mid-West vintage find and seriously one of the coolest gifts I've ever gotten.
We agreed that they almost look like confetti cupcakes. Small and just the right size for really good hot chocolate or hot apple cider with a cinnamon stick poking out of it, I'm almost glad it's still winter. And with five in the set, it's the perfect number for a solid group of good [bike] friends.
Can someone start a petition for the Regular's Lounge? A big cup of Irish coffee wouldn't hurt either, especially after a ride in this snow...

lack of tired-ness

It's funny how you realize how neurotic your whole entire family is when you spend some time away. It's also, ironically, what makes going home so great: you fit right in, and you don't have to worry about acting "normal" anymore.
I'm not at home, but I take comfort in the fact that my Mom is probably working non-stop on her lacquer-ware [she's an artist]. She doesn't question how I'll stay up into the wee hours of the morning slouched over, embroidering a piece of cloth. Neurotic devotion loves company, I guess.
But I think anyone, even people outside my family, will agree that it's hard to get tired when you're doing something you really love. Well, until much later. Like right now. My legs are finally feeling juiced out, after doing laps from Allston to downtown, to Cambridge and back to Brighton. I don't usually ride this much, but having been introduced to this concept of "freedom," [well, until the library opens again on Monday] I was at a loss as to what to do, other than pedal, pedal, pedal. And though I'm not at home, talking with nearly all my bike friends today came close enough. Because neurotic devotion for the same exact thing is always a guaranteed good time.

First stop was at polo; I hadn't been to the court in months. And with a warmer weather, it seemed like everyone showed up. Boston's Cutest Polo Player was in attendance [I failed to get a pic], as was Boston's Hottest Polo Player [seen below].
And you know how the East Side Polo Invitational is being held here in Beantown in May? The teams coming up are going to face some stiff competition from our home teams. We're just not happy with the whole "one mallet" concept, so we figure double-fisting couldn't hurt. I mean, not as applied to polo at least.

Neurotic devotion? Probably. Are we going to own all the teams that come up for ESPI? Most definitely. Will we be the hottest players there? Yes, yes, and yes.
As I challenged the bald guy in the blue sedan who patronizingly tried to tell me to move over as I flipped him the bird on Comm Ave [which rendered him into some sputtering rage, in response to which I laughed]:
Bring it.

spinning out

Excuse the late evening posting recently, but it's been warm out.
Which means I haven't been getting enough work done, but it's not like the balmy weather's going to last much longer. Which also means I've been spending the day [since getting out of class] pedaling as hard as I can [to places where I can drink coffee]. The freezing cold almost made me forget how much fun it is to go so fast you're spinning out [although, yeah, I'm geared low]. Almost.

My excuse for blowing off the day? I'm officially on spring break, although it's not really spring, nor much of a break.
Still, I'm not complaining. The past few days have been akin to rubbing my face on cheese graters. It's not even the work, which can be sort of mind-numbing and prone to dammit-did-I-just-drool-everywhere-? naps, but the whole song and dance I tend to do at school. Smile, be sociable, pretend I don't have a secret life. Repeat.

Not that this secret life of mine is very exciting, mind you, but it does a lot to retain my sanity. And when things like "the economy" and "the world" start spinning out of control, well, it's nice to be able to hang onto something [even if it's just a fixed cyclocross bike].
Wait, scratch that. Especially when it's a fixed cyclocross bike...and coupled with coffee.

rose sky

It's in the 40s today, which means that the cyclists are out in full force. I saw my morning older-bearded-dude-on-road-bike-with-bright-yellow-wind-jacket and the girl-on-hybrid-who-always-looks-really-really-happy-to-be-coasting-down-the-hill-I'm-trying-to-struggle-up. Those are the only cyclists I usually see. Older-bearded-dude usually does either the slight hand raise or nod of what I like to imagine is a seasoned cyclist salute of mutual respect for commuting through the winter. The girl just ignores me in her happiness.
Using the warmer weather as an excuse, I flew out of school after class to drop by therapy IBC [yes, I am quickly becoming the persistent, eternal customer that just stops by to "hang out," i.e. annoy the too-nice employees into listening to my banter when they have real customers to actually pay attention to who probably have more money than me]. I ended up pedaling from Brighton to Allston behind two kids on fixed gears, and was actually able to keep up! And by "keep up" I mean I wasn't trying to act cool with one hand off the bars while my nostrils flared in my attempts to suck in enough air to keep me from passing out. Like, I was really able to keep up.

On my way home under a rose tinted sky, I saw at least four other cyclists - roadies, hybrids, and last but not least, a black cruiser with full fenders and a pretty wicker basket in the front, full of groceries. It was pretty enough to make me sort of want one - despite my slight aversion to step-through frames.
The image sort of slowly died this sad, cringe-inducing death as I watched [and eventually flew past] the woman on said cruiser attempt to crest a slight incline in heels with no helmet.
Maybe I'll file that cruiser for when I move to a European city.