the currency of friendship

Tommy was one of my closest friends my junior year of college. Accidental neighbors, I had outwardly rolled my eyes while bracing myself for a year filled with drunken, slurred shouting and loud music. Not that I knew the guy, then, but I’d heard enough and seen him around. Tall, with dark hair and classically Italian looks, I had quietly resented his smirk and good posture, equating confidence with douchebaggery. I resolved to stay out of his way that first month of the semester, scuttling around the hallways, trying to avoid eye contact or acknowledgment that I existed. But both of us ended up showing up to too many of the same impromptu frat parties, and fueled by a little liquid courage, I finally admitted that I lived next to him.
“Man, you must think I’m a total asshole,” he said.
At that moment, although the 3 a.m. blasting of Nas and Eminem came to mind, I couldn’t say that I did. Maybe I was too surprised at his response to be totally honest. Maybe his cute roommate - who made both my best friend and me spend our time competitively trying to bump into him - came to mind. Maybe it was Tommy himself, who was charmingly attractive, that confident smirk broadening easily into a happy smile that I later learned would earn him forgiveness from most women. I laughed in response to his comment as I offered him a light, and over cigarettes and red plastic cups filled with cheap, cold beer, we became friends. By the end of our first conversation, I went so far as to mention my secret little crush on his roommate: “Hey, that guy you live with? He’s kind of cute.”
His roommate started saying hi to me after that. Probably because Tommy had informed him that “that chick that lives next to us? She told me she wants to fuck you.”

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Despite this obvious miscommunication, Tommy and I became solid friends. He was the guy that would lead me to believe that most American guys could easily finish a case of beer by themselves and also sparked my soft spot for thick Boston accents. I voluntarily played drunken slut to get jealous girls to hook up with him, and when I made it a habit of passing out on the frat house couch after my one obligatory beer, Tommy would play pitbull, just in case. He’d go home for the night with someone else [as would I], but we’d reconvene in the morning. We always did. And because of our adherence to each other, deep inside, I felt as if he were all mine.
The next year, though we lived on the same hall again, things changed. Tommy fell in love with someone he probably shouldn’t have and our friendship faded. He was no longer mine - not even partially - and when I finally admitted it to myself, my heart cracked a little.
It wasn’t the shattering that happens when someone you believe you love drifts away. Because though that’s a unique kind of hurt, that Hiroshima-ed part of you tends to grow back. There may be weeks or months of broken hearted tears, but in those times of “I’m never going to date again,” it’s your friends that will pick you up, dust you off, and drag you back onto the bike or into life. When you lose one of those friends, though, it goes straight to the part of you that doesn’t heal over after pints of ice cream and shots of vodka. That part of your heart that doesn’t so much as shatter as crack or chip. Like a well worn steel frame, the blemishes build character, but that doesn’t mean the process doesn’t suck.

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I am intimately familiar with this due to my own special blend of social retardation and immature pride. Never blessed with the charisma to rake in crowds of potential friends [even on Facebook where the ability to operate a mouse qualifies you to be “friends” with celebrities], I’ve hoarded whatever friends I could earn. Their relative rarity leads me to treat them like treasured $20 bills, individuals to be saved for those good coffee shops that only take cash. Viewed objectively, the exchange of tender looks the same, but those friends are somehow more valuable than a promiscuous swipe of the credit card.
It doesn’t make sense, but then again, it probably shouldn’t. The currency of friendship is an odd one because no one should be keeping score. A good thing if, like me, you tend to always be in the red. Not that I don’t attempt efforts at repayment, but my friends are either too clueless to understand basic economics or, more foolishly, don’t care about the glaring liability that is our friendship. I can only hope that they have enough asset-producing friends to balance out whatever detriment I incur in their lives as I, ever the debtor, luck out on their generosity.

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In a way, this deceptive sense of never returning what is paid to you is what makes the friendship real. Because in truth, friendships are costly. Socializing having become an integral part of my ride in recent weeks, my lone jersey gets squeezed out multiple times a week in my bathtub. That’s a lot more times than I would have washed my jersey otherwise, as, often stranded on solitary rides, being close enough to be smelled was never an issue. My bathroom resembles a makeshift closet of bike gear most of the time, cuticles are always dry, and those now-clean shorts are going to be slathered with chamois cream yet again tomorrow. Submerging hands in a sink full of soapy water almost every day is becoming routine, but the trade-off is worth the unpleasantly pruned fingers.
Not incidentally, my legs and ego are paying up as well. The luxury of solitude, of course, is that no one ever has to hear you voice what you suspect might be true about your abilities on a bike. When you make bike friends, however, the sharing of vulnerabilities centers not around crushes and personal complexes [as is usually the case], but strength and speed. This means I am consistently faced with the uncomfortable choice of either blowing myself up on these rides or gasping out a request to slow down. My legs might be getting murdered by people I genuinely like, and it’s not like anyone’s judging, but it remains a humbling experience to state my [many] limitations.
But despite all this, I have too easily agreed to join in on too many rides of the Jesus-Hernandez-this-hurts variety this week. Friends iron out the creases that develop on my forehead as they pull me up another climb or drag me through some dirt and gravel, and I repay them in kind with my complaining. I get dropped here and there, but I know they’ll be waiting at the top of a climb or around the corner of the next turn.
Waiting to reconvene. Because we always do.

crazy, sexy, cool

I may be dating myself in reference to this album but that’s what this week has been. A good thing, maybe, as these past few days, my fingers have been busy tapping the sides of a coffee cup, not a keyboard. But all that caffeine and hanging out hasn’t been for nothing, as I’ve been quite the serendipitous slacker of late.
crazy - the crostis descent
When people told me this year’s Giro looked crazy, I didn’t fully comprehend what they meant. With the death of Wouter Weylandt, and stages that look like they could fit into the Spring Classics, the Giro has been both sobering and surreal. To add to the general insanity of it all, comes this article, which states, in part:

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The descent of the Crostis worried Contador more than the climb to the finish on the Zoncolan. He admitted he had never seen anything like the dirt road section at the top and the near vertical drop off at the side of the narrow road. “It scares me,” he told Gazzetta dello Sport who followed him during his ride.

He was told that the race organisers will erect safety nets to catch any riders that may crash on the descent but said: “That doesn’t go close to the limit, it goes over it.”


Nets? ...Really?
sexy - pave.cc
I’ve been lucky [serendipitous?] enough to meet a lot of amazing cyclists at Ride.Studio.Cafe. Last weekend, Neal regaled me with stories of climbing the French Pyrennes [with a standard double crank] and at one point jerked a thumb over his shoulder at an impossibly slim cyclist named Raphael.
“I’m trying to get him to drink vegetable oil,” Neal said, “he’s killing us on the climbs.”
A few days later, I walked in to find out that Raphael’s friend is opening Pave Culture Cycliste, a shop that has most all of the RSC regulars and employees [sorry, Rob] making plans to move to Barcelona. The store closes from 1.30 to 5.00 for a group ride that heads out at 2.15. Every. Single. Day.

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Hola, Barcelona, HERE I COME!!!
cool - m. scott morton
I met Morton at - of all places - a business networking event organized by our alma mater this past week. He mentioned he lived in Harvard [the town], one of those places I have grand plans to bike to ever since discovering 1. a “Harvard to Harvard” ride on mapmyride.com, and 2. the Harvard General Store. Morton mentioned he designs and constructs furniture for a living and my interest piqued, I asked for a card.

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So glad I did. Because, woah. His stuff is amazingly beautiful. I rode to RSC the next day to spread the love and Morton and his adorable son even stopped by yesterday.

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And yes, when I get the legs to ride to Harvard, I’m swinging by his shop!
Enjoy the race/bike/furniture porn, and have a great weekend, guys!

cuddles, cops, and good company

Three trains, getting lost in some questionable alleys, a few cases of Coney Island beer, Farinelle pizza, cops, some friends I haven't seen in forever, and Stage 7 of the Giro d'Italia. Mix, shake, and serve on a cold Friday night.
Following weeks of deprivation of outdoor riding, the first Motion Pictures event showing the infamous stage of last year's Giro elicited an emotional response in me akin to that evoked when I see the word "sunny" combined with a number greater than 30. I didn't even care about the free beer or pizza. When I first heard of the event, all I saw was Cuddles, cycling, and the potential for interaction that is more socially acceptable than therollercam.com. How could I say no to that?

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Despite my geographically-challenged sense of direction, I arrived at the Glass Shop at the fashionably prompt hour of 7.35. To a packed room. Empty Coney Island beer bottles already crowded the back of the counter and the pizza boxes were mostly picked over. Getting to the back of the room seemed like a dim possibility. But hey, there was a 9 foot screen and a chair nearby. I wasn't worried about missing the mud-covered finish.
Except that friends started to arrive. People I hadn't seen since I started wearing multiple layers of wool were coming through the door or squeezing towards the front of the Glass Shop. I caught up with Derrick, saw Hot Sam, was invited out on a ride with Phoebe, and met Dave Trimble. And just when I started to remember how to carry on a conversation with someone without 140 character limits, the cops showed up.

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Not that that stopped anyone, least of all Cadel. They issued a bunch of [pink!] citations, I actually got to say, "I'm an attorney," and the stage and party finished out. No one seemed to want to leave even after the stage was over, but the last train called and we reluctantly headed out into the cold, still giddy from the stage, the beer, and the company. A monthly thing? Man, I wish this was weekly.
Check out more pictures here, and if you're in NYC next time around, be sure to stop by!
[Note: all photographs by Mr. Gage + Desoto]

motion pictures: stage 7 of the 2010 giro

As most of the country gets ready to engage in the national past time of consuming bucketfuls of cheese puffs while screaming at a giant flat-screen TV, I am reminded of how much I have...grown.
Not that I wouldn't stuff my face full of greasy wings, limp celery sticks with ranch dressing, piles of tepid pizza, and kegs of cheap but cold beer if given an excuse to do so. But then I'd have to compensate for that weight gain on my steel frame by not ever carrying water bottles. Which normally wouldn't be a problem, because I have a personal cadre of domestiques, but sometimes you just want the option of riding your bike alone, you know?
Anyway, because jerseys should be close-fitting and because I wish my shoulders were narrower to reduce wind drag, I'm kind of excited that, on Friday night, Mike and a bunch of guys with ampersands between their names are holding a screening of supposedly one of the best stages of the 2010 Giro. According to inside sources, many dudes who look like they can fit their entire body into the pant leg of your average NFLer will be in attendance!

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For the more cultured, mark your calendars. Even if you remember every detail of this stage, can you really resist an excuse to cheer Lance to yet another decisive victory?
I DIDN'T THINK SO.
BE THERE.
Friday, Feb 4 @7pm at:
The Glass Shop 766 Classon Ave Brooklyn
[And yes, I was totally kidding about Lance.]