high and dry

I have the worst luck in the world. I will manage to leave just when it starts to pour and arrive at my destination as it starts to clear up, usually end up with the worst exam schedule on the face of the planet, and will consistently get thrown under the bus for things I have absolutely nothing to do with.
Yeah, it's totally awesome.
The most recent episode of incredibly shitty luck involved an incident which occurred on a weekend I was away. That's right; I was about 200 miles away from Boston and somehow the whole thing twisted around to bite me - a completely uninvolved, neutral party - in the ass. The pressure of throwing around the unpinned hand grenade that is my law journal only exacerbated things. And given the luxury of a warning this time around, I was bracing myself for the damn thing to explode in my face.

Surprisingly, it didn't. Which is a good thing, if only for the fact that I can continue to keep my bike in our law journal lounge.
But of course, the weather never wanted to stop screwing with me. Clad in underarmour, wool socks, and a raincoat, I left my apartment yesterday in legitimate rain. Water found its way between the vents of my helmet, soaked the Mengoni hat I'm ridiculously proud of, and dripped down the back of my neck. Drops of rain clung to my socks and seeped into my Sidis while gloves got soaked. And just when I rolled up to the front of the law school, the sun peeked out. The rain stopped. I was still drenched. Awesome.

I secretly hoped that it would rain more later in the afternoon, mostly because I brought my raincoat. I felt more and more cheated as the sun shone increasingly brightly outside, and save for a 5 minute downpour that I gleefully watched and took pictures of, the rain vanished.
The road was mostly dry by the time I got home.

Just my luck that, when sticky social situations seem to be easing up a bit, the weather manages to royally fuck me. Actually, it didn't fuck me, it essentially built up some hype and left me high and dry, so to speak. Which feels somehow worse.
And yes, those are going to be famous last words.

rock star lube

I am obsessed with trashy TV shows like "Intervention" [and yes, "Obsessed"].
I'm not ashamed to say that I'll watch episodes of "Intervention" on Hulu while I'm on my rollers, morbid fascination allowing me to momentarily forget how much my legs are hurting. Crack addicts, meth heads, anorexics, cutters...It's addictive. I can't stop.
One episode in particular has stuck out; maybe because a bicycle was involved. A loving mother of two who was now homeless, hooked on meth, and forbidden to see her children, she did lines off of the porcelain top of a toilet in her underwear. With close-cropped black hair, darkly-lined eyes, and a stick-thin figure, even on her bicycle, she looked like a total rock star.

I am slightly ashamed to say that I was disappointed and shocked when she cleaned up and transformed herself into a normal, slightly frumpy woman in her late 30s. But I think of her whenever I lube up my chain.
Because I've been using Rock 'n' Roll lube, and that stuff is slick.

After about two months of forgetting to buy lube [despite the inordinate amount of time I spend in bike shops], a friend finally brought me a bottle of this stuff because it was apparently flying off the shelves at NYC Velo. I had my doubts. It looked exactly like the dry stuff I was using earlier, which a seasoned mechanic told me was probably made by Satan. Also, it's lube. Other than the whole wet or dry thing, aren't they all just the same?
Apparently not. A single application later, my chain was as smooth as Mick Jagger. A length of metal links that had once groaned and squeaked with accumulated dirt was now as silent as rock shows are loud. Pedalstrokes were like cutting through warm butter - or, to keep the rock star analogy going, like doing lines of top, high-grade cocaine.

"I looooove riding my bicycle," that meth head had said with the delirium produced by non-medical use of hypodermic needles and snorted lines. I remember being slightly appalled as I watched her pedaling her cruiser along, and thinking that this woman was clearly living in some other reality.
But I started thinking, maybe that declaration wasn't so much a product of illegal substances, and just the result of proper application of Rock 'n' Roll lube. Or, at least I sort of hope so. Because otherwise, with the way this lube has me loving my bike rides, people are going to start thinking I'm a meth head, too.

comm on

There are some people who - either due to complete drug burn-out or just plain genetic unluckiness - simply lack common sense. If said people are semi-attractive, it can almost be labeled "adorable." Like how they might think that a Band-Aid will be sufficient for a gaping wound. With the right bone structure, that's kind of cute.
But after any kind of prolonged exposure to those kind of people, it just gets sort of annoying. You can't blame them, but the truth of the matter is, when I accidentally stab myself, I'm not going to need a Band-Aid. I'm going to need some fucking stitches.
And sadly, that's exactly what Boston can be like.

Freezing New England winters mean asphalt that cracks and forms waves; and when I finally manage to muster up the energy to call the Department of Public Works on it, they usually just smack a patch on the offending hole. A month later, that hole will be back, and then it'll increasingly get bigger until someone else decides to call the city. And they'll just smack another Band-Aid on it.
It makes for interesting rides. But apparently enough [rich] people got together and decided that they probably didn't want to be held liable for running me over after my front wheel fell into some gaping crater. So they're repaving the entire length of the Comm Ave service lane from Boston College to Newton.

Which is sweet, really. But did they have to turn Comm Ave into some kind of urban 'cross course where "road rash" will take on a much bloodier meaning?
Granted, they didn't dig up the asphalt and then leave it that way for the next four months as might be expected. In fact, they're making good time, considering the constant traffic. That doesn't mean it's not killing my cleats, though [yes, I'm too much of a pussy to ride on that, even with a 'cross frame]. In road shoes, I'm jogging through grass and over pavement that resembles a cheese grater.

It's not that I'm scared of falling on my face [well, okay, I'd prefer to avoid it], but I haven't wiped out in a while, so I'm probably due for a epidermic disaster soon. And quite frankly, I don't want to risk losing half of my leg on Comm Ave and then having to gimp/pedal the rest of the way to school and then sit through class, bleeding, because I've done it before and it sucks. Seriously. I'm not even kidding.
So in an attempt to avoid said death traps, I'll be taking Beacon to school for the next few weeks. Of course, with my luck, I'll probably end up double-flatting, then skidding down that hill on Beacon on my face tomorrow.
Sigh. C'est la vie.
[Also, thank goodness it's Rapha Scarf Friday. Helloooooo weekend!]

slowing down [with snob]

Like most people, I can't stand people that are like me.
It's not because I see all of my own personality faults in them [I wisely choose not to acknowledge that], it's actually far more basic. I just can't stand people who are obsessed with multi-tasking; thinking about 20,000 things at a million miles a minute. If I'm honest with myself, though, I'm equally as irritating as the people who drive me insane.
No surprise then, that I start my day off with a cup of rocket fuel. Strong enough to keep the gears spinning for the next four hours or so, it's sipped after a quick warm up on the rollers, while I check my inbox, pack a lunch, do my hair, and compile the day's to-do list in my head. Bold, strong, and hot, it definitely makes this girl's morning worth waking up for.

Then chugging the slowly cooling liquid, the bike ride to school is done while rummaging around my brain for lectures, events, rides, and errands that have to get done. People to email back, posts to publish, pictures to take. Climb four flights of stairs and change out of my shoes and sweaty clothes before sitting in class, taking notes, checking the NY Times, looking up the weather for the following week, deleting emails, jotting down random ideas, etc., etc., etc.
It's not like I can't sit still. I can. Quite well, in fact. It's just - like most people my age - I'm addicted to multi-tasking. And when you add law school and cycling to the mix, it seems like it all has to be done at breakneck speed. Get to school fast, get reading done fast, get journal stuff done fast, get home fast. Sleep for a little while and get up fast tomorrow.

Rushing home yesterday for another cup of caffeinated diesel because the thin, watery stuff at school just wasn't cutting it, I plopped down on my couch to fly through a few articles in the October issue of Bicycling Magazine. Even though really good writing seems extremely hard to find these days, I was still ready to read the thing from cover to cover in some ridiculously short amount of time.
Chance dictated that I would open the page to Bike Snob's column, and despite the steaming cup of coffee in my left hand, I finally managed to slow down. And think. And relax just a tiny bit.

Because according to BSNYC, I've been doing the equivalent of "shotgunning" my life, when it really should be "sipped" and "savored." Okay, he was talking about bike rides, but when you're spinning your way through life like you're racing on 2:1 gearing, the analogy is appropriate. At least my ADD thinks so.
I read just a few articles, slowly drinking my coffee, actually tasting the stuff instead of trying to directly inject it into my bloodstream ASAP. I left most of the magazine unread, for later.
And then I got on my rollers and tried to make the time fly faster while watching an episode of CSI and allotting out sections of my night for whatever long list of things I had to do. Such is life.
[And here's a Rapha Scarf Friday for you, complete with caffeine...]

beacons of light

Everyone's heard of the old person that got up in the middle of the night to get a glass of milk, fell down some stairs, and croaked.
I feel like I'm dangerously close to actually being that person. Except I'm not old [in the relative scheme of things] and this is all going to happen on a bike.

Because while it's only the second week of school, last night I found myself half groping through my usual commute, squinting in the dark as if that's going to somehow fix my 0/0 vision. It didn't, obviously, but feet fueled by hunger bordering on starvation and getting crowded out of the lane by impatient cars, it did help that I knew my route well.

Newton likes to keep things dark, but even along Comm Ave - which actually has functioning street lights - the shadows of trees like to hide all the sneaky potholes that are just deep enough to fall into. My trusty Knog light kept the more attentive drivers at bay but I'd still need one of those intense headlights [the kind you actually strap around your head] to actually illuminate the street.
Because I'm as blind as a bat. The only thing keeping me from eating shit on the way home was the fact that I knew what to avoid and where. But cutting across the Boston College undergrad campus, and hopping onto Beacon, I discovered something new.

A bike lane...! Marked off on both sides of the street in bold white lines that I could see even without the aid of sunlight. And while I know the bumps and cracks on that stretch of road nearly by heart, it's reassuring to know that a couple feet of asphalt have officially been sectioned off for my personal use.
Of course, this has the potential to put me right back into that dangerous old-person-dying-in-her-house scenario. Because the whole assumption behind that is that you know your house well enough to get around with no lights on. But of course you're wrong and you end up paying the consequences. Which sucks when you have to die for it.
Maybe I'll stick to taking my chances on Comm Ave...

snobby shorts

Being somewhat of a closet snob, I love the vague language of being in the know.
"Did you see--"
"Oh yeah."
"Unbelieveable, right?"
"But awesome."
"Exactly."
And, of course, I love it even more when this top secret, exclusive language is used in the context of bikes and blogs. I'm not talking about my own...No, no, leave it to someone far more meticulous and clever.

I'm talking about Velodramatic. His cycling photography is a-maz-ing, but what unfailingly becomes the topic of discussion amongst readers [i.e., those clearly in the know about good style, taste, and photography] is the discovery of his "tab." A list of every bike-related purchase investment he's made, complete with a grand tally, it displays what I normally would throw into the mental "ignore as much as possible" file cabinet. Obsessions can get out of control quite easily, and when paired with numbers and dollar signs, it's enough to make you consider trying to regain your sanity.
Of course, it doesn't work that way. Despite the shorter days [why is it getting dark at 7.30pm now?!] and the dwindling bank account, I made [what I believed would be] my final bike-related purchase for the next few months. And that was going to be it. I mean, other than a tube here and there and the odd bottle of lube, nothing substantial was going to be purchased. That was the promise.

But when I got my first ever pair of bike shorts a few days ago, it also opened a Pandora's box of "things I really need now that I have shorts." Because it feels like I'm finally making some leap; getting serious - for real this time - and committing to more hours and millions of miles on both of my bikes. No more of this "well, my saddle hurts" excuse. Pull on those black Lycra contraptions of diaper-esque proportions and get out and fucking ride.
And ride I did. This past weekend was bubbling over with bike rides - on the rollers and off. But that also had me discovering that those bike shorts weren't my final investment. Even with the shorts, the saddle on my Dolan still feels like a meat tenderizer, the cooler weather is oh-so-perfect for longer rides but also indicates a need for a new jersey, and eventually, arm warmers, leg warmers, gloves, and embrocation. And if I ever get to pushing hours on the rollers, another set of clipless pedals.

It adds up. Dizzyingly, in fact. And as the numbers creep skyrocket, I'm almost tempted to look around for a less expensive hobby [although, it's really debatable if those really exist]. But it seems I'm in it for the long haul - for life, even - so it's really not worth sweating all those minor details. At least that's what I've been telling myself lately, anyway.
Besides, deep, deep, deep down inside, maybe I subconsciously knew purchasing those shorts would mean entry into the snobbier sub-world of cycling where t-shirts absolutely cannot be paired with cycling shorts if you want to be taken seriously. Where black shoes are only for domestiques, and kits should perfectly match your team-issue bike. Which, admittedly, means many more purchases await me under a heavy cloud of potential debt.
Yeah, thank God for debit cards.