pedal, interrupted

Not enough sleep. Not enough motivation. My two persistent problems this week.
Last night I blocked off time slots for studying. 8am to noon on Saturday is for Con Law, Tax, and Evidence. 12.30 to 5pm for outlining, reviewing, etc., etc., etc. It felt organized and good; at least it looked good on Google calendar. The unorganized mess is actually executing said plan.
And said plan is already being derailed. I woke up this morning and couldn't wait until 4.30pm - because when it's this warm out, I'm definitely leaving the library early, taking the long way home, and stopping at a few bike shops along the way.

I even had a post planned - well, half planned - about how gorgeous it is outside today and the fact that my gigantor thighs are no longer wrapped in Underarmour. I was then going to go on and say boring and mundane things about spring and how everyone should go out there and ride their bikes. Yeah, notice how I said "half planned." I am emphasizing the "half" here.
So with this weakly formulated post, I figured I'll try to boost interesting-ness with good pictures. Something nature-y, so people see that Boston actually has seasons other than "bitterly cold winters." Something that doesn't consist of the shots of Comm Ave that I love to take. Somethi-

W. T. F.
I screeched to a halt, just managing to wrench a foot out of my clips as I fumbled for the camera conveniently nestled in my pocket. With one foot still clipped in, I hopped/dragged my bike closer, zooming in on the turkey that decided to show up in the bougie streets of Newton. Seriously? I mean, I know this happens, but it's 8.30am and this is Comm Ave...! I almost reached out to tug the sleeve of an invisible friend and finding none, was left to sort of look around in amazement.
So, yes, I saw a wild turkey this morning. That means that, at the very least, it's going to be a good day [but with bike shops involved, how could it not be?]. It also means that everyone racing Battenkill tomorrow is going to have an awesomely good time.
Good luck, guys - I'll be there in spirit, eating a turkey drumstick!

sweet and salty

Until about a week ago, my friends [other than my IBC crew, obviously] who got to see progress pictures of my bike would constantly ask me when it was going to be done. It was more out of politeness on my friends' part though, as most of them don't ride bikes; and it's a too-easy topic of discussion that'll make me blatantly happy. A friend put it bluntly:
"Your face just lights up when you talk about that bike. Like what normal girls do when they talk about shoes."
I was sort of glad, though, that my lack of funds and thus, parts, was slowing down the whole process. It was still legitimately cold out when I bought the frame [in mid-February], and the days of alternating snow and icy rain kept me from wanting to jump on that bike ASAP.

Late nights in the library and a lack of lights for the Dolan are keeping me from riding it to school this week. But as I chased down a guy on a fixed gear this morning - white bike, spandex, some awesome kicks, and thighs that looked like tree trunks - I noticed something that made me smile.
Gasping for air as I attempted to keep pace with the fixed guy, I wasn't tasting salt anymore. That's become my barometer for full-on-New-England-okay-I've-had-enough-can-we-have-some-warmer-weather-now? winters. When my tires stop kicking up an invisible layer of salt dust grime, it's officially spring. No more snow or ice. No more getting stuck behind those salt trucks just as they start scattering the stuff [which resulted in an inadvertent facial exfoliation via rock salt]. No more white flakes of dried saltwater peeling off my bike.

I understand it's fairly disgusting to actually know that the aforementioned salt dust grime is going into my mouth. That's not to say that getting a taste of cycling is always salty, though. Because bike shops will always feed you, and when it's finally spring, Easter M&M cookies become not only muscle fuel, but also sweet promises of summer.
I'm already getting hungry [again].
[Thank you Bud and Mrs. Barry for the delicious cookies!!!]

[k]nightrider

I'm not gonna lie, I used to love that show.
Long after I stopped watching it, and after learning how to fully appreciate alcohol, I'd sometimes wishfully long for my own KITT as I stumbled into that infamous McDonald's in downtown Tokyo at 4am to wait until the trains started to run again. A car that would not only talk to you and advise you against bad ideas, but also come to your rescue? The idea of KITT still makes me wish I knew how to drive.
As the days turn warmer and longer, I ironically find myself wishing I had a car and the requisite knowledge to operate it. For the next few weeks I'm looking at very little riding, and a lot more late nights in the library. Until now, I had managed to escape the library in time for dinner at home; I left last night well after it was dark.

The good part is that there are fewer anxious drivers eager to get home and drive you over in the process. The bad part is that after 10+ hours in front of a computer, I can barely see, much less see in the dark. Add to that my simple desire to just zone out and I tended to forget that my feet were attached to my pedals. Despite my fears that the freewheel I'm on is going to make me both lazy and weak, I was grateful for the ability to sit on my bike and do nothing for once.

I'm already missing the sweat-drenched long rides home and the burning exhaustion in my thighs when I manage to finally limp through my door. The bright sun shining through classroom windows are an absolute tease and the warmer weather has me daydreaming of the all the riding I'll be able to do once finals are over.
Until then, I suppose I should learn how to use those rollers.

freewheel fun

Almost exactly six months ago, I was still freewheeling it on the Bianchi. I bought into the hype and was consequently terrified of going fixed; hence I was stuck in that gray area of the freewheel where I almost got scene points until I started coasting. The resulting inferiority complex really killed me.
Ironically, I flipped my wheel over last October not because I wanted to belong to a "scene," but because I stopped convincing myself that I wasn't good/cool/skilled enough to go fixed. Fuck the "scene," fuck the trendiness, fuck my scarred up knees - it couldn't be that hard. And, honestly, it was stupidly easy. I even stopped crashing every month.

Six months later, I'm back on the freewheel...and I'm quickly developing a new appreciation for it. Having officially gone clipless, I figured I'll minimize the chances of crashing [I don't really miss it] by getting used to the whole clipping in and out thing on cranks that don't always have to move with your rear wheel. I struggled with it both on a trainer and in the parking lot behind IBC but managed to clip in, not crash into an SUV, and get out on the street.
In the middle of traffic, I belatedly realized that I wasn't fixed anymore. I tried to slow down by stopping my feet and nothing happened. I was still moving. And I was headed straight into the back of a stopped car.
My sluggish brain finally pooped out a memory of Erich, a mere 10 minutes ago, saying, "oh yeah, you have brakes. Use them." Brakes! Shit! Use them now! I managed to slide up next to the stopped car, slowing down, then accelerating again as I jerked my knees up and down like a wind-up toy soldier until I figured out that I needed to clip out to stop because my feet were attached to my pedals.

It took about a good half hour but I finally got the feel of a freewheel again. There's more planning involved, now that I don't have my feet to slow down with, and going really slowly is actually really hard. On my evening ride last night, I felt faster though; and while hills are sort of a bitch, coasting through turns is so much fun.
This might be cheating, but I'm almost tempted to keep that freewheel on for that century...

paris-roubaix, boston-style

Always having been the less talented of my parents' two daughters, I was constantly presented with two choices: excel in something different or be content and find value in being, well, inferior. It's easier to be the latter...but my parents didn't raise me that way.
Unfortunately this can usually results in me doing things just to prove that I can do them. Like biking year-round in ridiculous temperatures. Or sort of training for a fixed century. Or deciding that doing a longer ride on a track bike I can barely ride with increased gearing would be a fantastic idea.
Which is exactly what I did yesterday. Planning out a simple 20 mile route, Pete and his extremely pale yet freshly shaven legs assured me that my jump in gear inches was fine, and that we could do 20 miles easy. I blindly believed him and failed to factor in the whole twitchy lightness that seems to be characteristics of a true track bike, as well as mostly unwrapped bars and gloves with no padding.

My hands and arms absorbed the shock of every crevice and bump we went over...and quite frankly, my ass didn't fare much better. I mentally told myself to toughen up and keep plowing through. Concentrating a little too much on actually planning out and holding a line [my 'cross bike lets me truck through anything and everything], we got lost and had to backtrack a few times. Spotting the river, we decided to ride down River Street in Waltham towards Watertown and Cambridge.
It was the worst road I've ever ridden on. About a mile in, Pete yelled that it was like riding the Paris-Roubaix...and it certainly was. His superior bike skills allowed him to deftly dodge obstacles while maintaining a constant speed. Already nervous about being perched on something that felt like air compared to my 'cross monster, I was a stressed mess. Brake with my legs, cautiously roll over uneven layers of asphalt, skitter around unexpected potholes, attempt to maintain enough speed not to piss off the drivers speeding by, try not to lose Pete. It was like that "don't step on the cracks in the sidewalk" game I used to play as a kid, except my teeth were clattering, I was developing carpal tunnel, and it was way more painful.

While half tempted to stop and take pictures, the desire to get to the end of this ass-beater of a road had us riding as fast as we could. The worst part? It didn't seem to end for a really, really, really long time. When we got back to civilization, normal Boston roads - despite all the cracks and potholes - felt like sliding on butter. The people milling about in Harvard Square looked at us oddly as I [finally] lurched into Cambridge. Maybe we let our guards down a little too much as an older model Volvo cut off Pete on Mass Ave without signaling, causing him to slam into it as he maneuvered between the curb and the car [he's okay, though]. The driver claimed her signal had "fallen off," which had us giggling on our way through Cambridge.

We inhaled bagels [sorry Eric] before heading home. I wasn't sure my legs and arms were still attached to me but Pete assures me that they were the last time he saw me. Normally, I wouldn't be adverse to go back and take pictures of River Street. Normally. Because unless you give me a full-suspension mountain bike, I'm not ever riding Boston's Paris-Roubaix, again.
Unless, of course, you challenge me to do it...

greasy madeleines

Like Proust and his madeleines, certain scents can have me mentally reeling back to, well, remembering things past.
I still have a soft spot for Old Spice Sport which will eternally be linked to college boyfriends, late night games of beirut, the beer-soaked floor of fraternities and a particular red vinyl couch [patched with duct tape] I used to pass out on. The smell of good leather sends me back to barns, horses, and that inexplicable feeling of flying when jumping my first "chicken coop." And that unique smell of a hot iron and the stringent scent of turpentine brings me back to summers spent in Lenox; painting, drawing, and, of course, sewing.
My most recent scent-linked-to-memory is admittedly...more...wtf in comparison. Because these days, I'm in love with a certain Phil Wood.
There's really no describing the distinctive smell of Phil's deep green, greasy goodness. Incredibly smooth, he stands out from the rest of the pack in his sleek, Bianchi-celeste-green-esque packaging. His cologne is, for me, all things bike, mechanics, bike tools, and intact threads.

It was only natural then, that I made sure to pick him up a few days ago when I swung by IBC. The new tool set-up and rummaging in a few drawers for a requested rubber hammer resulted in pure tool envy...and a reminder that I needed some action from a particular Mr. Wood. Although, I admit, the pure abundance of a Mr. Park was almost enough to derail not only my purpose for dropping by IBC [other than hanging out as per the usual], but my wallet/bank account as well.

I almost didn't notice the new tool board until later, but instantly wanted the same set up in my future bike home/garage/workshop/studio space. The organization, designated spot for each tool, and the grouping of the tools by function and size had my OCD purring in contentment. When I saw Wes return a tool to its rightful place, I almost sighed in happiness.

This is what bike shop dreams are made of - friends, tools, grease, and smiles. And while I forgot to drop that tube of Phil in my bag this morning, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to need to huff that tube for a while.