holiday nothings

It wasn't New York, it wasn't Christmas eve, and it didn't end in the drunk tank. But it was as carefree as a "Fairytale of New York."
You know the Pogues song. With those charming lyrics ["you're a bum, you're a punk/you're an old slut on junk"], it's the song that'll run laps around my head during this season. It flittered through my head a few weeks ago, just as it got cold, then vanished as final exams hit and cabin fever settled in. But after the corporate tax exam that was akin to Chernobyl, I was free to live like a normal person. To sleep in when I didn't have class, to ride my rollers endlessly, and even to do nothing at all.
I almost freaked out. I have no idea how to do nothing. It scares me.

But I had a whole day to myself, before flying off back home to Tokyo for two weeks - where, admittedly, posts might again be sparse as I intend to perfect this whole "doing nothing" thing - and with exams and school done for the semester, I no longer had the "sorry, I'm busy" excuse. To be honest, I probably would have stayed in my apartment, alternating between my bed and my rollers if it hadn't been for Mike and an email telling me about the Downtown Crossing Holiday Market. With clear skies and not-so-unforgiving temperatures, it was worth getting out of my apartment for.
Okay, so I didn't ride down there; Mike didn't bring his bike and we figured having him ride on my bars probably wasn't a good idea. The T actually proved to be relatively painless and crazy-people-free, and warm - something of a novelty when you ride around in Boston winters. Back out on Park Street, anywhere that wasn't soaked in sunlight was bordering on freezing, but the Holiday Market was enclosed in a tent. We slipped inside to find jewelry, baked goods, and even a small farmer's market section. And then we stumbled on perhaps one of the coolest things ever: dessert hummus.

Coming in different flavors like pumpkin pie, toasted almond, chocolate mousse, maple walnut, caramel apple, and peanut butter, it's made with chickpeas but flavored and sweetened, and completely vegan. We tested a few flavors, then both shelled out for a container of the stuff [Mike got the almond, I wavered between pumpkin pie and peanut butter, then ended up with the latter]. And to fuel our trek through town to Newbury Street and the Pru, Mike grabbed a Berliner/beignet covered in cinnamon-y sugar from Swiss Bakers.

Then we walked. Yes, walked. Through the Public Garden [across the frozen pond], down Newbury and Boylston. It could have been done faster by bike, I know, and it's insanity that I'll choose to spend the last day I'll be within 10 feet of a bicycle [for the next two weeks] on my feet and not the pedals. There might be something to be said for slowing down though, for trying to spend the day like a normal person might. To stop striving - if it can really be called that - to achieve some elusive cycling goal.
But like the oxymoron that is the recovery ride, I couldn't stay away. Symptoms of bike withdrawal emerged here and there as I pointed at displays and suggested ideas ["Hey, [NYC] Velo should do that..."], between stories of what the guys were up to while I was chained to a desk. I was even already planning my next trip to see my crew after I get back from Tokyo.
Plans which didn't involve taking the bike along; I will be loaded down with presents, after all. But, a long, narrow box came my way, wrapped adorably, and from the kind of present giver you almost don't want presents from because they pick such good ones and then you're like oh shit, now what do I buy them? I peeked inside, my eye bulged, and then I tried to be genuinely exasperated even though it's something I honestly wanted. It's made for women, it's wider than most, and yeah, it's going to look sick on the track bike.

So it wasn't Christmas eve. And it wasn't New York. But I still got a feeling...this year's for me and [my friends, bikes, all the awesome people who read this, and, of course,] you.
Happy holidays!

layered denial

A few years ago, my "spring break" coincided with Valentine's Day. Finally taking the time to head down to NYC to visit a sister and a best friend I hadn't seen in a small eternity, I walked into an apartment full of...cupcakes. There were about 10 or so cupcakes, all from various donors privy to the fact that my sister's girlfriend has something of a cupcake obsession. The situation escalated into the absurd when my best friend came over for dinner, bringing with her a half dozen, softball-sized Crumbs cupcakes.
After gorging ourselves, we felt obligated to put a dent into the cupcake surplus. But given how large Crumbs cupcakes can be, we modestly cut them into fourths. But 10 minutes into dessert, with all of us dipping back into the tray for "just another piece," my best friend made the following observation:
"We don't we all stop lying to ourselves...we're all going to eat the equivalent of one cupcake."

It was true. We were in denial, nonetheless, and only assented to that observation after we each demolished at least 3/4 of a cupcake. And this time of year, I'm back to cutting my cupcakes, so to speak. Because in full denial of the current onslaught of winter, instead of perhaps wearing a proper jacket, I'm leaving the house in layers: long-sleeved Underamour, leggings, jeans, knee high socks, fleece jacket, soft shell jacket, and a down vest. Add to that a giant Ortlieb bag, helmet, and Pearl Izumi AmFIBs, and I look like a colorblind Ninja Turtle [my jacket and hat are red...the down vest dark green]. But hey, it keeps me on the bike, and that's the important part.
Because fully in finals mode, too little time is spent in the saddle. Countless hours are clocked in in front of a desk, and the Bianchi only gets ridden when I manage to find an excuse to venture outside. But when I do, whether I'm bundled up to the gills or relishing the absurdly warm weather we had earlier this week, I'm savoring.

And not only because I've been filling up on some awesomely good vegan yumminess [read: curried split pea soup from "Vegan With A Vengeance"]. Sure, it could be my body finally getting some Vitamin D, but the motion of pedals and the feel of the frosty wind that's preventing me from actually moving forward are oddly appreciated this time of year. Even short rides to the grocery store to pick up something I didn't really need - but convinced myself I should get to alleviate the cabin fever - are fun, despite their simplicity and lack of length. With windows wide open at night, I'm doing too much time on the rollers, too. So as the hours and days dwindle down to that Corporate Tax exam that I'm so not prepared for, I'm clinging to both of my bikes as if they were security blankets of tax law knowledge.

And somehow, there's a complete lack of that feeling I usually get around exam time, where I panic and productively spend my time wishing I could hit a magic "Pause" button and buy myself some time and comprehension. None of that feeling of my bowels going through a blender when I see the days disappearing on my calendar, either. Even if studying is getting done at the pace I ride the rollers [i.e., slowly].
But then again, I just might be waist-deep in denial. Attempting to take a power nap a few days ago resulted in dreams plagued by conflicting tax provisions. But...ignorance is bliss [until I get my grades back], right?

bottled martinis

Having realized that Dragonforce in the morning can only get you so far on the rollers, I have shamelessly embraced Hulu like a fat kid clutches onto his prized sack of Halloween candy. Somehow, when you're on the rollers and the sun hasn't come out yet, it's perfectly okay to start your day with a little House M.D., even if that means you're going to get to school barely in time for your 10am class.
It was on one of those sweat sessions with Hulu that I came across a commercial for the Smirnoff Pomegranate Martini. Prepackaged vodka, pomegranate juice, and Meyer lemon liqueur, the voice-over guaranteed "the perfect cocktail with every pour." I almost stopped pedaling in horror.
Because, like most things, when you get used to the real thing [or even just the better thing], it's hard to....well, downgrade. What to a college student might seem convenient and palatable becomes, after a few real cocktails, a cheap attempt at bottled class that shouldn't be touched with a ten foot pole. Call me a snob, but if given the choice between Smirnoff Pomegranate Martini and Natty Light, I'd probably go for the latter. At least the frat boy beirut beer of choice isn't trying to pretend it's something other than what it really is [i.e., shitty beer].

And the same goes for bikes and the people who ride them. Though I'm capable of standing over M1's Cyfac, I've refused to ride it in part due to the full C-Record gruppo. It's not because I might crash it [although, due to my clumsiness, that's a very real possibility], it's because I know I'll never forget how it feels. And with a wallet that lacks a third dimension these days, whatever gruppo I may be able to afford won't be anything close to Campy. It's like driving a Lamborghini and then spending the rest of your life comparing it to the late model Hyundai you're currently stuck driving. There's no rational reason for you to do that to yourself.
As for the people, well, they can raise the bar quite a bit as well. Take a handful of experienced cyclists that will easily clock in 200 miles per week and have negative body fat and suddenly hauling a single-speed on the occasional 40 miler becomes embarrassingly pathetic. It's not that they look down on my feeble attempts at cycling; in fact, they do the opposite. But despite their predictable immaturity [they are all guys] I still look up to them, and they unconsciously have me striving for higher goals this winter.

And I don't just mean in the cycling sphere. Though I'm not into poaching my circle of friends for potential husband material, those seemingly irrational requirements for the ideal significant other have gone from "someone who rides a bike" to "someone who has less than 4% body fat, rides at least 200 miles a week, preferably year around, knows how to fix their bikes, will tolerate my roller coaster mood swings, has a solid sense of humor, isn't completely useless, falls on the smarter side of the scale, and oh did I mention is also swooningly hot?" I know, I ask for a lot [but please, I have a lot to offer, now, don't I? Kidding!]. Blame my frustratingly competent friends but I've been around too much of the real thing these past few months. And between classes, exhaustion, and the rollers, I realized that - though well aware that I may never be able to keep up with those friends on a bicycle - I'll be damned if I'm going to downgrade.
It's like realizing that you're spinning out at your gearing; at which point, why would you switch to a bigger cog [or a smaller chainring]? Okay, there's that whole "because it could kill your knees" which in relationship-speak translates to "because you'll end up a spinster with 20 bikes and 30 cats." Touche. But I'll be a spinster with 20 bikes and 30 cats and still be keeping it real.

Sound irrational? Then go to a real bar, [swallow your insecurities concerning your sexuality...you're a cyclist for God's sake, you should be comfortable with the accusations by now] and order a appletini or whatever fruity martinis they might be offering. Savor it. Then pick up a bottle of Smirnoff Pomegranate Martini at your local liquor shop on your way home. Try to actually drink it [without hurling].
Doesn't seem so irrational now, does it?

treadmills and triathlons

A few years ago - back when I could be found in nothing lower than 2 inch heels, with hair down to the middle of my back - Sex and the City was blowing up on HBO. Lack of a TV in my college dorm room meant that I was never able to follow Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha quite as closely as some of my friends, but that didn't mean I was oblivious to it all. And as that infamous foursome sought love in the Big Apple, people claimed that the show was clear evidence that the "30s were the new 20s."
I naively believed it back then; barely 21 and fully immersed in the self-centered mentality of college, where you're not really expected to think outside the small universe you've built around yourself. I remember being sort of relieved upon hearing that claim, actually; a decade plus of time mentally stretched out before me. Plenty of time to figure out love, life, and everything in between.
But now officially in my late twenties, I can tell you this: your 30s will not, in fact, be anything like your 20s. I don't care how "mentally young" you claim to be, it's not the same, if only for the sheer fact that when you're 30, you probably aren't still partying on your parents's dime. And by that time, it's really not socially acceptable for you to be doing so, either. So that whole bit about your 30s being the new 20s? Huge lie.

Unless, of course, we're talking about treadmills and triathlons. Then, it somehow seems like women in their 30s dominate, and are having as much or more fun than their 20 something counterparts.
Maybe it's the typical social calendar and Friday nights of the recently-post-college set that tends to get in the way of regimented training sessions and yoga classes [and who can really blame them?]. But the typical "fitness chick" tends to be a woman more experienced than those just making their way into the workforce. They eat well, hit the gym nearly daily, and work around their work-outs, all while juggling spouses or boyfriends and possibly children. The image isn't an envious one; fitness chicks are constantly busy, and all they eat are salads and health food. Sure they have amazing bodies, but who really wants to put in that much work to be like them?
Or so the 21-year old me thought. But looking around - at my calendar, the rollers, the yoga mat that has it's permanent place in the center of the floor, and even the contents of my fridge - it seems as if I'm slowly becoming a fitness chick. Granted, I mostly stick to cycling, but I've ventured into Pilates and will sometimes even hit the gym. Five years ago, I hardly knew how to work a treadmill and detested wearing sneakers. Now, I can't live without either. When did that happen?

Last July, on the weekend following my birthday, my sister had cackled as she asked:
"So how does it feel to be in your late twenties?"
As if, at 28, she wasn't already well into her late twenties. I had a bit of an existential crisis for a full minute before heading out the door to my new favorite bike shop. Neatly clipping into my pedals on Second Ave, I didn't feel 26 yet [bicycles tend to have that general effect]. But I knew I was pushing a gear ratio that would have killed both my knees a few years ago.
Dodging pedestrians in Chinatown, I finally had an answer for my sister: it feels great to be in my late twenties. It feels better, in fact, than when I was 21, smoked daily, and could live off bad Chinese food, pizza, and Krispy Kreme. And I'm kind of proud to say that...even if I have my inner budding fitness chick to thank for it.

thanksgiving rush

Apparently having three days off means that your week gets squeezed into your two normal work/school days.

I won't be blogging until next Monday, unfortunately, but travel safe and Happy Thanksgiving!

speaking in letters

Every year, a typed sheet of paper will arrive in a tri-colored air mail envelope, my address inscribed with my father's well-handled Mont Blanc pen. A jumble of Japanese mixed in with the occasional English word, he’ll even sometimes provide the odd phonetic pronunciation of a simple Japanese character while somehow leaving the harder ones for me to stare at.
I always seem to allot half an hour to reading those usually one-page letters.
They’re simple, for the most part. Kind of a Dad-created beginning-of-the-school-year ritual where easily comprehensible words disprove my theory that my father is a voluntary space cadet and blissfully oblivious to my largely self-centered confusion at what in the world I’m doing in life, much less law school. They’re written with the kind of honesty that would end up sounding slightly awkward and embarrassing when said in person, and more comfortable with stoic, unemotional reactions from both my parents, the kind of honesty I wouldn’t know what to do with.

After all, having Asian parents meant that affection came in the form of demanding better results. It’s not that they were constantly disappointed with me (well, maybe they were, but I did okay for a kid with epilepsy), they merely believed that my sister and I could do better. Making our parents happy quickly translated into getting excellent grades. When the pressure increased, my sister retaliated by sneaking off school grounds to smoke; I responded by hitting the books. When my SAT score came back with a 99 percentile verbal score, my father gave me his first unqualified "I'm proud of you." I was too shocked to cry.
He said it again to me when I graduated college. He’ll probably say the same after I throw my cap along with the rest of my law school class in May 2010.
All I have to show for it, though, are two single-speed bicycles, a blog, and the ability to fix a flat and tension a chain.

The embarrassment and shame at being the indecisive, less talented daughter is all mine, and a familiar one. Guilt at being unable to fulfill an unspoken, assumed promise is a newer one, and one that I personally abhor. So when I told my father several months ago in halting Japanese that maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a lawyer, I braced myself for the fall out. Merely thinking about it would paralyze my tongue as empty panic dropped heavily on my shoulders, resulting in the inability to even tell my closest friends about what was really going on. Instead, I lost sleep and rode my bike a lot.
My father responded via a letter - two pages this time - and didn't disinherit me as I had feared. The economy sucks, but just keep looking, the letter said, a legal education doesn't mean you have to practice law. In the meantime, don't forget that friends are your life treasures, and it's better to be happy, than to be right.
And finally, "apologies for causing you worry; I'm not that sick, I'm getting better."

That letter still makes me cry. It uncovers all the feelings of the guilt of trudging through classes, taking too much time to contemplate the jump away from a legal career, mixed with the futile desire to be smarter and better at everything I do. And in its stead, I'm choosing to bike indoors and out, not quite sure if I'm pedaling in place or gaining ground or just plain staying with the pack.
I feel like I should be leading the breakaway, or at least staying with it, but the uncertainty of whether my legs are up for it is stretching the hesitation. It doesn't help that my vision is blurred by the shameful tears that it would take an ailing father's letter [but one that, even verging on 70, can still outrun me] to make me realize the intensity of parental love.
I'm not sure I'll be much of a lawyer. I'm not sure I'll ever be much of a cyclist, really. But Dad, I can't wait to show you what I can do on a bike.
[I even managed a Rapha Scarf Friday this week. Now wish me luck on the MPRE. Because I'm going to need it.]