bike stupid

My parents are both typically Japanese...and not.
They're typically rarely [overtly, at least] proud of their daughters' accomplishments. But they managed to skip the "parent stupid" phase where everything their children did was endearing and adorable. Maybe our faults were pretty blatant from the beginning. Maybe they didn't want to be "those parents." Maybe they just kept their excitement to themselves. Who knows.
And while I inherited most of their stoicism, when it comes to the things I love, I inevitably cave into the stupid.
Because despite the dings all over my top tube, the dirt caked on parts of my bike, and my rear white tire that's turning into a dark gray from all the brake dust, I still think my bike is hot shit. And despite the fair number of douchebags on high end bicycles, I still love bike people.
Which is why I'll get up early on Saturday morning - earlier than I get up for work during the week - to go on a quick ride before the rest of life wakes up to start the day. And happily, I wasn't alone; I ran into my fair share of cyclists, legit and kitted out, riding things much more expensive than the tractorino between my legs.

And I even got my fair share of the cyclist nod. That coveted acknowledgement of belonging in an exclusively special group of cyclists-bordering-on-insanity-because-no-one-should-be-riding-this-early-on-a-weekend-morning. I mean, let's ignore the fact that it was sometimes coupled with a quizzical look of confusion ["wtf is this girl doing?"]; we're not going to sweat the details here. The important point being that it happened [right?].
The best part being the pack of roadies I passed on the way home, obviously mid-training ride, and the sunglassed glances pointed in my direction. Baileyworks on my back, fender on my back tire, an earlier version of myself would have blushed in embarrassment. But being bike stupid, I smiled instead, half tempted to blow them a kiss.

Later on in the day, shuffling through pictures taken earlier in the week, I came across one taken of my bike locked up in front of the grocery store. The front wheel turned towards the rack, it looked almost coquettish in the early evening light. I thought it was the cutest thing, ever.
Yeah, I know, I might need treatment for this.

a cyclist's dilemma

I got rained on yesterday - for the first time this summer.
It wasn't even heavy rain, and lasted a mere 5 minutes. But lacking a front fender, my legs were instantly covered in beads of water, raising goosebumps on my unevenly tanned appendages.
It was the first time, in a while, that I was sort of uncomfortable on my bike. And between dodging puddles and eyeing the overcast sky, I was actually thankful that I had a run scheduled yesterday afternoon, and no ride.
As much as I'd love to move to Seattle, sometimes I wonder how much riding I'd get in if I actually did.

The nicer weather's definitely been spoiling me. Rain shouldn't even be a problem, just sort of messy. There's no ice or snow involved, no layers and layers of clothing to stay warm, no feeling as if I'm pedaling with all my might but not moving. But I'm still trying to dodge the outdoors, and using gyming, errands, and overdue hat orders as excuses to stay inside.
Lame, I know. I mean, I know. The worst part is that gymming is just...so much easier. Running indoors on a treadmill at a gym conveniently located on my way home from work takes no psychological effort. On the other hand, planning a route, making sure I have everything I need [tubes, pump, energy bar, water, etc.] for a ride, then actually throwing down even a so-so number of miles is much more mentally straining. And when it's wet, humid, and rainy out, motivation conveniently slips away and is nowhere to be found.

I'm running again today [the guilt!]. But only because tomorrow morning looks like it's going to be clear. And that means a real bike ride.
Faux-roadie-proseur weekend, here I come!

the keys to my heart

There's an odd painting hanging in my sister's apartment. A man and woman are facing each other, playing poker. The man is fully dressed, the women completely nude. And yet, you can see the man's hand, while the woman keeps hers [cleverly] out of sight from the viewer.
Ah, men. So predictable [if you replace "common sense" with "what would make sense if you just wanted to get laid"].
Unfortunately, I sometimes feel like I'm completely naked and showing off my hand. I make it too easy, I guess: I perk up at the mention of bikes, I gush when anyone asks about cycling and training rides. I even smile and giggle.
Talk to me about bicycles and there's a good chance I'm going to walk away loving you.

And while those less closed-minded than me might entertain the prospect of dating a non-cyclist, [assuming I had the time for a relationship] for me...well...that's not really a possibility. Because cycling ends up seeping into your skin and permeating every aspect of your life if you get as addicted as I have. Cycling doesn't become a smaller part of your life. You just end up rearranging life around cycling.
And I don't even race [yet].
Sure, I'm predisposed to guys that ride hard [pun intended], but that doesn't keep me from thinking that it's great that newbies are out there these days, testing the Boston commuting waters. Because it is, and the streets seem to be crowded with strings of slightly blatantly inexperienced commuters. It's just that, even if that means more eye candy for me, a lot of them are simultaneously breaking my heart.

Call me neurotic...but...really? Sure, a bike is just a bike, but like a trophy wife/husband/girlfriend/whatever, that doesn't mean you're allowed to blatantly parade around the fact that you think it's dispensable. I think it actually took more time for my brain to process everything that was wrong with this picture than it would to cut through the lock and steal the bike.
Yes, I love cyclists; but no, I could never date this guy [assuming he was hot and interesting].

And apparently it's not just isolated to male cyclists. It's good to know that if I wanted a relatively new pale blue cruiser, that I could have one within 5 minutes. It's a cute cruiser, too, and one that probably gets its fair share of love. Just, maybe not enough from the right source. And though I don't doubt that the owner has good intentions, she's never going to realize what she had until she loses it.
We've all been there. With things possibly more precious than a bicycle. And there's really no point in setting yourself up for unnecessary heartbreak. Which is why I don't like to make it easy. I'm not condoning playing games; that's a waste of everyone's time. Just, you know, make it a little more challenging to steal the object of your unconditional affection.
Seriously. U-lock that shit.

re-gruppo-ing

The unpredictable [well, more than usual] mood swings, the sometimes swirling depression, the desire to drown myself in ice cream and potato chips [at the same time]. All signs pointing to a very reasonable suspicion that my uterus is currently getting out of control.
Estrogen, I hate you.
The weather doesn't seem to make it any better either. Overcast with a just-enough-so-it's-annoying misty rain, it's encouraging me to blow off after-work rides and stay in to work at my machine. Which is beginning to get slightly stressful.
But when some Motown beats channel their way through my ipod and out my speakers, and a friend drops me an IM about receiving an inexcusably late birthday present, I'm tempted to get back on the bike, or at least on the rollers.

Having known Jones for about 5 years, I owed him a birthday present, big time. Yes, his birthday was in March. Yes, I attempted to make up for the delay with a cog I've been lusting after myself. Yes, I like to gift things that I like.
I did get one for myself, too, but it's been staring me down from my desk, shoveling on the guilt for not riding my bike enough. Much less installing it. Admiring its sharp edges last night, I put it on the never-ending list of things to do. Cut, sew, design, embroider, email, run, ride, write. Mix and stir with an estrogen blitzkrieg and I'm tearing out my hair and crying for hours over gchat.
Ah, the disadvantages of being the sole member of Team Flying Solo. I wrongly assumed that riding/working/writing alone, I couldn't possibly drop myself. But last night, I sort of did; I found myself in the existential equivalent of that dreaded scenario that hardcore roadies talk about - getting dropped from the pack, 70 miles from home, just as it starts to rain. Oh yeah, and obviously cursing my lack of gears.

Shit Life happens, I guess. And when you're stuck in that kind of "OMG FML" situation, there's really nothing to do but get back on the bike. So this morning, I made a promise to mentally regroup, sort through all the bullshit, and be a little less crazy.
Which is why I'm wearing my new favorite t-shirt. A Gage & Desoto original. Well, at least the first that's been printed on an American Apparel Tri-color Track shirt. M1 wasn't offering girl's shirts when he got in touch, which meant I even got to pick the color of the shirt. And do I love it. Even if wearing it while pedaling a single-speed is dripping with hipster-esque irony.
Yeah, I know. Sometimes it does pay off to be a girl.

adorkable

My first boyfriend was a computer science major [yes, I started dating in college]. He was clean cut, played Ultimate Frisbee, and was his high school's valedictorian. He also watched Star Trek and loved video games. He didn't totally look it, but he was kind of a dork. I thought he was the most adorable thing, ever.
Until we broke up, of course.
Still, I've always had a soft spot for dorky things. Like I find abacuses sort of charming. I really want a Casio calculator watch. And I've played my share of a certain MMORPG.
So when I found myself surrounded by cyclists of every shape and size, at least half of which had on one of those unavoidably bright yellow traffic vests, I didn't cringe. In fact, it was really sort of endearing. Sprinting to Cambridge to drop off hats that I'd promised for months and months, I found myself in the middle of the Amory Park Brookline Bike Parade. I vaguely remembered being handed a flier about it at an intersection on Friday but had proceeded to completely forget about it.

Catching up to the tail end of it, I chatted up a few bike cops before winding my way up the parade. And right before I turned off Beacon to hop onto Comm, I saw the immense peloton that was the Bike Parade. It was impressive. And while it was sort of, well, dorky, it was the good kind of dorky. The kind that makes you smile to yourself because people are having so much fun. The kind of dorky that reminds you that cycling doesn't always have to be about speed and competition and training.
Heading towards Comm, my legs finally moving at a reasonable pace, I unconsciously started to push myself to go faster, faster, faster. But slowing down at a light, I wondered why. It was Sunday. I was rushing to Cambridge...just to rush there. And I was getting sweaty and gross.

I coasted the rest of the way there, resisting the urge to pick up and haul ass. Decked out in all black, my poor choice of clothing dictated that I was sweaty when I arrived to chat with friends. And watching them get excited over a few cycling caps, I realized how bike-dorky we all are. It's just hard to tell without the yellow vests.
No wonder I love bike people.

trying to engage

This scorching heat must have toasted my brain into a half-baked mess today.
Okay, there are confounding factors. Like too little sleep and too many obligations and responsibilities that I'm literally riding away from whenever I head out west. The sheer irony being that in trying not to think about errands, hats, emails, etc, etc, etc...well, I end up thinking about them. A lot.
Although I managed to keep myself from ramming into parked cars, there was some quick swerving around potholes and roadkill, and even the need to use that squeaky front brake. And while being zoned out helped with the hills [I would be halfway up one without seeming to notice I was even climbing], I could not, for the life of me, clip in.

When done unconsciously, it takes me less than a second. But I was fumbling today, coasting and peering over my knee as I tried to engage and hear that satisfying *click*. Don't think about it, don't think about it, I thought. And then I'd think about it.
I even did that super newbie move where I thought I was clipped in only to have my pedal slip out from under my cleat and bash my shin. I also managed to scratch myself on my front brake; the icing on the cake being a bloody knee when I accidentally smashed it into a counter when I got home.

It's probably just sheer complacency. This is no NYC. These are the 'burbs of Boston, where I can stay in my drops without so much as tapping my brakes for miles. Heading out on rides sleepy and sans coffee is actually an option. Pedestrians are pretty much nonexistent, and even if Waltham is completely different from Brighton and Brookline, I know where I'm going.
And in response, my brain seems to have shut down a little. Even with wider shoulders and the confidence to do slightly shady stuff on my bike, my legs weren't tense and alert. I felt sluggish. Even a little lazy.
I suppose that's what happens when you come home.