storming through

There were some crazy thunderstorms this morning. Like the kind where lightning flashes blindingly bright followed by a shaking crash of thunder and you wonder if the world is ending.
It's funny how the weather reflects your mood sometimes.
Although the thunderstorm this morning is more reflective of yesterday where everything seemed to go wrong. I locked myself out of my apartment by accident, headed to work late as a result, and battled two paragraphs of a gigantic appellate brief for...8 hours.

It was the first time I nearly cried at work. I know how cliche [and consequently, lame] that sounds. I managed to check the tears, but ended up spending three minutes [three whole minutes] with arms crossed, pouting furiously in the bathroom.
And when 5pm came around, I was completely worn down. But on the way home, someone drew up alongside me, and surprise, surprise, it was Mr. Croth. I hadn't seen him in forever, and chatting while riding with him [my first time, ever] definitely lightened my mood.

It was a hint of a much better end of the day that I was hesitant to anchor a definite hope on. But like the currently clear skies after the thunderstorm from hell, riding out to run some errands, I ran into two people who I only know through this blog [I ran into one twice!]. Which, of course, made me smile. And finally arriving home, I shrieked a little in joy when I found a slim package waiting for me, from Portland.
But that's for tomorrow. For now, I'm out to get coffee while the skies are still a little bit clear.

sunny sailing

I never really understood the obsession with protein until my hot cousin married a yachtsman.
Tall and ruggedly handsome, sporting the perpetual tan, I was impressed. He also happened to be a super nice guy, and we shot the shit about the Louis Vuitton America’s Cup, the then-new yacht used by Team New Zealand that ended up breaking into pieces, and what it feels like to be on a yacht that is fucking flying. On water.
He also told me how, when he was racing full-time, he was eating about 10,000 calories a day.
Back then, I was all wtf. But following and befriending a few real cyclists, it makes sense, and consuming that many calories doesn’t seem so much like a death sentence to skinny. Well, that and the fact that my cousin’s husband had a regimented diet balanced out for his sailing skills.

I don’t have a nutritionist, unfortunately, so I’m left to my own devices of “don’t eat too much processed shit” and “eat balanced meals.” Which translates to “eat stuff that won’t break the bank.” Too bad when you start riding a lot more, you tend to get hungry. Like all the time.
So in comes protein [to supplement my massive caffeine consumption], which is supposed to keep you fuller longer and help build muscle and all that goodness. But being a former vegetarian, I'm a tiny bit wary of animal products. Still, when a friend comes up to visit his parents who own some free range chickens, and hands you half a dozen fresh eggs, dinner for the next week is going to be omelettes and sunny side ups and scrambled eggs.

Cracking open the first one in the pan a few nights ago, I was tempted to bike down to M1’s parents’ house. Or at least steal a chicken. These things are huge. These eggs are to grocery store eggs what Chris Hoy would be to a sad anorexic hipster. And as delicious [looking] in comparison.
I've actually been hoarding a few; making that half dozen stretch. And as odd as it may sound, this is dinner food. I somehow still can't manage to eat much before a ride. Call it a digestive system used to a day that starts at school or the office, but eating anything before 9am [even with a ride planned] takes a conscious effort. Although, of course, that could just be a sign that I need to do more riding.
At least these delicious protein bombs have me pedaling faster on the way home...

flopsy cranks

Handshakes. The first physical contact with a stranger you're supposed to like. A strange social greeting with which you can gauge the other person's social confidence.
Well, at least if the hand offered to you is limp, slightly damp and hardly makes an effort to grip your hand. There's almost nothing worse. It leaves me mentally recoiling, searching for the first opportunity to wipe my hand somewhere without anyone noticing. Unconsciously I usually end up pushing the hair out of my eyes, then almost getting dizzy with panic at the thought of limp handshake sweat near my face.
It's the worst. I think most people would agree.
So it was kind of surprising that that was the first thing I thought of when I finally switched back to the freewheel last week. I had only been riding on the fixed side for about two weeks, but when I hopped back onto my bike, my cranks were positively floppy.

And limp...! Lacking the resistance of a fixed cog, I was lurching around on the street, silently freaking out at the unfamiliar feel of a bike that seemed much looser. And consequently much harder to control.
It took about a block or two until my legs finally understood that pushing back on the pedals did nothing except result in small spurts of terror as the bike continued forward. I consciously had to force myself to coast and stop pedaling when descending. And I was back to dragging my bike up the hills, no momentum pushing my pedals up.
But heading home from work last night, I weaved through a few cars and squeezed though some tight spots, remembering a few weeks ago how I split lanes for the first time in NYC. And while I was fixed then, I realized I was using my brakes to crawl forward on my freewheel, something I know I couldn't have done [without crashing] a year ago.

Stopped at a light, I watched a guy on a yellow IF ratchet his pedals, his cleated feet never touching the ground. I still can't do a trackstand to save my life, so I opted just to watch, leaning on my handlebars, half sitting on my top tube. The light turned green and a small hill was up ahead.
I beat him on the way up. Then got my ass handed to me on the way down. It's the small things, I guess.

pony express

Coffee table books.
I love them. Not because of their sheer size and authoritative weight, but because they reveal so much about their owners. When a person’s willing to spend at least $50 on a book - especially in this day and age of Internet everything - you know they have to love the subject.
My coffee table books, tucked away in a designated corner of my bookshelf in Tokyo, are all about horses. The real kind. And tucked between the encyclopedia-esque tome on every breed of horse and pony and the one simply called “Horses” that’s clearly from the ‘80s is a book on paintings by Remington. Because no other artist could depict the vibrant adrenaline of the Pony Express.
And while I’m working on building up my own coffee table book collection of all things cycling, I’m still switching out ponies and imagining that I’m delivering letters across the Midwest [okay, or just through Boston...from my desk...at the office...]. The Bianchi is made to fit this fantasy, too; the simplicity of a single-speed combined with the this-thing-can-roll-over-strollers-and-babies toughness.

But remembering this time last year when all I wanted was another bike, I stopped back home after a morning doctor’s appointment to switch out ponies. Because I can. Because I have two bikes. And I’ve been neglecting the other one for way too long.
And the Dolan is fun. Like the first time I jumped up on a Thoroughbred, it’s fast, light, and streamlined, but also twitchy and skitterish. It has personality you can feel at the first turn of the cranks; it wants to burst out of a gate like a tightly wound spring and accelerate. Gripping the top of the bare track drops, I remembered pulling leather reins desperately as something much larger than me bucked once before taking off, my hands tangled in its mane, clinging on, trying not to vomit out my heart in fear.

Good thing I tend to putter around on my bikes. I do feel guilty about it, though. And it’s not just about how slow I’m traveling. Like that feeling you get when you stand next to someone clearly more attractive than you, riding it sort of makes me feel apologetic for not being as hot as the bike between my legs.
I suppose I can just learn to ride faster. That way people will just end up seeing a blur of black, pink, and some massive thighs.
Admit it. That would be hot.
[Note: My modem has officially died so posting might be sparse until Monday...Sorry!]

rainy optimism

Blame the NYC Bicycle Film Festival and the weather for keeping me from blogging regularly lately. Ironic, I know.
A busy weekend full of bicycles and hats can do that to you, though. Saturday morning started with brunch before heading to NYC Velo [yet again] in the increasingly persistent rain. We hurried to the shop with heads down, attempting to shield our faces from droplets of water, to pick up a tent, a banner, and a box of goodies. An Ortlieb bag was packed with Gage & Desoto gear, my own Baileyworks stuffed with hats, some optimistic hopes crammed into our pockets, before the whole operation was carried to the street fair.

Despite the flash flood warnings, even Jason K. [check out his pimp profile here] showed up with another Ortlieb's worth of t-shirts and flyers advertising the silk-screening classes he's offering. And with good company and plenty of bicycles, there wasn't much to complain about...well, other than the damp weather, of course.

Wrapped up in a borrowed raincoat, I mentally cursed the weather as I watched the sky. I seemed to be the only one, though, as BMXers happily did tricks up and down the street, slipping on the wet pavement. A crowd of people gathered to watch, and as the rain finally let up, the cluster of people eventually grew to a slightly surprising size.
Or, maybe, it was only surprising to me. This is the BFF after all, and even in the rain people were showing up on bicycles, dripping wet but eager to have fun. And this being NYC, there were cruisers, hybrids, track bikes, BMXs and all manner of bicycles. Sales weren't great, but the people watching was well worth the time spent under the blindingly orange tent.

We folded up the operation a few hours later, caffeine withdrawal calling us back to NYC Velo, then Abraco [yes, I'm an addict]. Later, fish were gutted, dinner cooked, more ideas bounced around before face-planting on my sister's couch, exhausted and braindead.
But not before the weather forecast for Boston was checked. It says rain. All week.
I'm trying to stay optimistic, though.

a fuzzy city

On my way back down to NYC again today [for the Bicycle Film Festival Street Fair on Saturday - come say hello at the NYC Velo tent!], I'm simultaneously sort of glad I live in Boston.
And not only because riding downtown with an overstuffed Baileyworks bag and another tote bag half hanging off my handlebars is actually possible [even sans helmet, if I so chose].
It's because the establishments I frequent [other than the bike shops] might remember me once in a while, and not in that creeped out way. Which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and loved inside. Okay, they just might be remembering a girl in crazy outfits, perpetually clutching a helmet, but they still remember.

It's only appropriate that I've recently achieved "regular" status at one of the two sewing/fabric stores I go to in Boston: Winmil Fabrics. Arguably the only fabric store left in Boston proper, it's no Mood, but remains a go-to for my basic lining fabric, thread, needles, etc. And, as an extra bonus, the husband-and-wife team behind the counter are definitely some of the nicer people in this city.
My purchases are usually fairly small - 3 yards of black fabric, a spool of thread - but I'll consistently be chatted up about my bike, where I go out riding, and if I have any more gears yet. On the topic of my lone gear, the owner stated:
"Well, I bet your legs get much stronger."
"Yeah, they're huge," I responded.
His wife laughed.

I love this kind of friendly banter. The kind that's only really possible in a small city if you're working on limited funds like I am. So even if I'm headed to glamorous NYC later this afternoon, I'm trying to keep my head on straight. Not crush on it too much. Not drool over all the places, people, and things to do in NYC while only seeing the limits of Boston.
Because, other than Tokyo, no other city has achieved warm-fuzzy-loved status with me. Yet.