this is taxing

In T minus too few hours, I'll be going Chernobyl on a tax exam. Or more accurately, I will be attempting to survive the nuclear winter that will be my tax law exam.
I'm in good company, at least. Misery, a common theme this time of year, still manages to make itself useful by forging bonds of solidarity. As a few friends and I navigated the intricacies and tiny little details of the tax code for a few hours this morning, fluctuating between comprehension and utter confusion [yes, even with the exam less than 24 hours away], there was the unspoken understanding that if we fail, we'll fail together. And until then, we were going to pretend that that just wasn't a possibility.

Dragging my feet back to my carrel after the study session, a friend who sits at the carrel next to mine spotted me in the hall and held up a hand for a high five. I reciprocated weakly, half missing his hand, mentally thanking God it wasn't Zack at Cambridge who would undoubtedly make me do it over and over again until my palm was numb. I sighed at my ineptness and stepped to walk past him when he asked:
"Do you know why I just gave you a high five?"
"No." [I mean, did there have to be a reason???]
"You're getting published."
He took three steps past me before I realized what that meant. I shrieked a little too loudly, and attempted to hug him before he pushed me away in feigned disgust, muttering something about how he now needed to take a shower. The failed hug was made up by a subsequently successful one with another friend and journal-mate who was also selected for publication. My fantasy of getting my name [and note!] in the Westlaw database is actually coming true [in Spring 2010].
That means more work, more time in the library, more pounding my head into walls over the issue of homonymous names of geographic indicators of cheese in the European Union. But those are things to worry about next winter. For now, as taxing as my current situation is [pun totally totes intended], the news gave me a much-needed academic ego boost and sort of hinted at the possibility that maybe I don't completely suck at all things legal.
...Well, that might not include tax law, though...
[And yes, the pictures of papers all over my desk will stop soon.]

train wreck

Just a warning: this blog will becoming increasingly...boring...for the next few weeks. At least in the cycling department [which is the whole point of this blog, right?], due to finals.
However, it might be mildly entertaining in that can't-not-look-at-that-train-wreck kind of way. In moments of clarity and sanity, even I'm amazed at what finals can do to me. I woke up this morning to some pretty disgusting carnage.

My knuckles are still sore from typing nonstop for the past two weeks. And there's the final sprint to the finish which consists of a 3 hour exam where no one can manage to type fast enough to get every single issue out on paper. But that kind of fun starts in a few days. Until [and through] then, I'm apparently surviving off [bad] coffee and beer.
I got soundly hammered after drinking less than a third of that beer last night. I drunkenly stared at my notes, feeling guilty enough to try to study but knowing deep down that I was just staring at words that made no sense [although it's debatable if they make sense when I'm sober]. I looked at my rollers, decided that maybe I should wait until the Asian glow subsided to try riding my bike on them, and ended up passing out after just barely managing to brush my teeth.

Never much of an endurance athlete, I'm clearly losing the marathon that is law school [drinking this time last year would have been unthinkable...clearly my priorities have changed]. But the race is already on and I'm almost, almost two-thirds done.
And while what doesn't kill me might make me stronger, my apartment and bike are clearly showing signs of wear and tear [the resulting decrease in value, which, by the way, is not deductible from your income tax return]. I've been reduced to begging the Bianchi to last through the next three weeks [please, please pleeaaase don't break/fall apart]. The dust bunnies in my apartment get no comment.
Except, maybe, that it'll be May [12th] soon enough.

fearless

Last summer, I encountered my first pack of roadies.
Plodding home from work, mostly zoned out, a male voice behind my ear called out:
"On your left."
As those words hit my brain, I instantly found myself floating in a sea of matching spandex. Six or seven cyclists drew up alongside me before passing by effortlessly, as I struggled to hold a decent line. Oblivious to everything but the goal [wherever that was], they swept by in perfect coordination and cadence. The proximity to the adrenaline, pure abundance of power, and muscle leaving me positively dizzy.
It's true what they say. Roadies are fearless. A "me and my team" mentality that can verge on the obsessive, and one that takes a kind of neurotic commitment that I respect and admire. It seems like a mentality that forces you to build character, or at least learn how to Shut the Fuck Up and Deal. Because, as a friend once put it:
"Cycling's different...your heart won't give out before your legs do."

And it's so true. In cycling - any kind of cycling - you'll always hit that point where you're tired and panting, but there's just a little bit more hill to conquer, and while your heart's still functioning, the only thing that's not listening to you are your legs.
That's when my heart really wants to explode. The desire to do well/conquer/go faster...and finding myself with no go. I was useless last night, and these aren't days to be useless. I need to stop cutting out of the library before 10pm, stop desiring sleep, stop feeling the pain in my knee and the stiffness in my sciatic nerve. And, in a sad way, stop thinking about pretty much the only that makes me happy: bicycles.

These days are kind of like riding fixed, but brakeless, clipless, and helmetless, all that's keeping me from an ugly crash right now is a hope and a prayer. But as I attempted [in vain] to keep up with two cyclists this morning - a Ridley and a Guru that looked like it lacked a third dimension - I spotted a hawk clutching a dead squirrel. It was sort of oddly comforting, and changed my mood for the better as I coasted [freewheels are ah-mazing] into the library.
I still might need a big dose of fearless from Team Shut the Fuck Up and Study...but I have a feeling [or at least a hope] that I'm going to make it through finals in one piece.

work + play

There seem to be two kinds of law students here: those that share their personal lives with each other and make normal friends, and those that keep work and play distinct. I clearly fall within the latter. In the past two years, I've perfected the art of putting off social events until it starts to verge on rude, and then only showing up to put in the requisite face time before jumping back on my bike.
It probably comes as no surprise, then, that only a few key friends at school know about my small corner of the internet. Drawn together by insensitively sarcastic humor, they're the choice people with whom I've managed to form comfortable bonds of trust. And in an environment as ruthless as law school, that's saying a lot.
Outside this tiny group of real friends, people just know that I'm obsessed with bicycles, not that I blog about them or make cycling caps. Which works out well for me; besides, if someone is going to put in the effort to look over my shoulder, google me, or otherwise stalk me and find this blog, well, congratulations, you've found me out...and earned some major creepy points in the process.

Maybe I keep my guard up a little too much, but with the gossip that flies around the library and locker room, I like my wallflower-melt-into-the-walls status. That's not to say I don't take risks...or that I'm not prone to new-bike-mom-narcissism. Because when the weather's this nice, and a lunch has been organized with my law peeps, I'll bring the Dolan to school.
I carried her up three flights of stairs because there was really no way i was going to lock her up outside. And, okay, I had class with Mark, whose ear I've been chattering off about this bike, and Ethan, the owner of an absolutely beautiful Cannondale CAAD 8. Both had listened patiently while I gushed about hubs and danced in circles while describing custom decals and pink cranksets. Both, along with a few others, got the see the bike build progress through emails and pictures. I wanted them to be the first future lawyers to meet her in person.

Despite shaking their heads at the impracticality of a single, fixed gear, they humored me by telling me that it looked awesome. I gloated. It may not be a time trial thoroughbred, but I love my little pony. Especially when she sits through my last ever Constitutional Law II class with me.
Yeah, that exam's going to be a complete clusterfuck. Mostly because I'm woefully unprepared. But hey, at least there will be something waiting for me at home when this is all over and done with.

marco...!

Cruising home last Sunday on the new track bike, a tall, lanky boy caught my eye.
Brown tussled hair, dressed in black, and features that can curl up into a super cute smile. Added plus? He was loaded with polo mallets.
I shouted out his name and gave a wave before turning onto Harvard Ave. Carefully rolling through the uneven patches of pavement, I heard a bell ring and turned to see none other than Jav, The Responsible Mature One of Boston Bike Polo's main regulars [and of course, one of the best Boston's got]. With increased gearing on my track bike, I felt like I was running through water on the slight incline while Jav's ridiculously low gear ratio had his knees bobbing faster than Jennifer Beals' in Flashdance. We rode through Harvard together, catching up, before parting ways all too soon on Beacon.

Then, last night, as boredom and cabin fever from being trapped in the library for too long crept up on me, making me more than a little bit homesick, my favorite polo player IMed me. I unfortunately missed their Sunday Polo/BBQ event last weekend, but was told lots of people showed up, even a fair share of girls [my cougar bait - a long-running joke - is apparently still single, though...phew!]. Jamie, one of the sweetest boys I've met in Boston, also demanded to know where I've been before leaving me with some sage advice [re: cougaring]:
"You need a man, not a bitch."

I had to cough to stifle my giggles and cover my mouth so no one would see me laughing at my computer screen. Jamie somehow always knows the right thing to say, and he's totally right about my inexcusable absence from polo. All signs are pointing to the fact that I need to go back to see the people that didn't tell me to gtfo after crashing into walls, other bikes, and generally being completely useless on the court.
Don't be surprised if, come this summer, at least half my posts are about...
1-2-3 POLO!!! [8 more days until ESPI 4!]
[Yes, these are old pictures...another sign I need to go back to play polo.]

puff, puff, [or] pass

Section 280E of the Federal Income Tax Code says that drug dealers can't deduct any expenses related to the drug trade from their tax returns. Well, that doesn't apply to the cost of the drugs though, you get to sort of make back that investment.
It was almost painful reading that on Monday. Monday. Marathon Monday. 4/20 Monday.
I should have expected it, too, the inevitable IM from a college friend. Something along the lines of "can't wait to get out of work...sad for you if you're not celebrating." I sighed, wishing that sigh was an exhalation of sweet, powdery, swirls of smoke, snaking out of my lungs and throat, ending with the rattled cough and the declaration, "wow...wow..."

I haven't done that in too long, and that may be for the best. Even if only for financial reasons, I couldn't afford such a habit. That's not to say I'm not fighting an internal battle against carcinogens these days. It happens the last few weeks of every semester when too many hours in the library, not enough riding, and guilt for not working hard enough combine and my brain tells me that something's gotta give.
And when that happens, I make up some excuse to get outside, get grabbed by a good friend I haven't spoken to in weeks, and find a cigarette in my hand, smoke between my lips. Inhale. Exhale. I'll feel like shit later, and that's when I'll crave another.

I thought about it last night as I passed the Store24. I had a few bucks in my pocket, a lighter at home. Add coffee to that and it would be my college breakfast all over again. I sighed, thinking, "maybe, maybe."
Instead I stretched, laid out on my floor, and looked up at a bike built to go fast. It looked like it wanted to pounce and break out of my bare apartment under a pair of strong legs and a set of reasonably workable lungs.
"Okay," I said, defeated, feeling even more guilty, "I won't. Not tonight."
And hopefully, not tonight either.