braking up

Like most people, I really hate heartbreak. The crying, self-doubt, nights alone that used to be spent either on the phone or giggling with a boyfriend, and just the complete emotional exhaustion. It sucks.
I suppose I was incredibly lucky when, the morning after my last break up, I ran into a friend who had broken up with her 4-year boyfriend. Which put things into perspective and I was all oh shit, never mind. And besides, it wasn't long until I felt those almost guilty pangs of relief that it was over.
By this point in my life, despite my limited track record, I understand that's a glaring sign that things would have never worked out anyway. I'm a little concerned, though, because I've been getting that feeling of guilty relief too much these days.
Oh, Boston. You're endearing, quaint, and so charming. It's just that I can't keep myself from humming Kanye's "Homecoming" as I slide down streets slowly coming to life to catch a bus down to NYC. I thought it was just a fling at first, but I might be bordering on emotional cheating.

Because even if I get caught in rain and end up slip skidding around on a city full of oblivious pedestrians, I'm resisting returning to Boston already. And with a shop full of friends and trucks serving real wafels de liege, can you really blame me?
A plan that had been tossed around, talked about, and even duly noted in an iphone to-do list since we came up with the concept for the "Breakfast of Champions" shirt, M1 and I finally hunted down the Wafels & Dinges truck yesterday afternoon. In the rain. After Twitter-stalking to find the truck's location, I found myself dodging cabs while attempting to catch up with a 40lbs Dutch bike with a coaster brake that, once it gets going, seems pretty much unstoppable [M1 managed to skid stop on it, which was incredible to watch].

Pedaling up from the East Village to Midtown, we steered around cabs, cyclists going the wrong way, pedicabs, and pedestrians, in rain that was getting progressively stronger. Around West 28th Street, I questioned whether the general discomfort of riding in the rain and the resulting frazzled nerves from biking in the city was really worth it. I mean, this was just a wafel, right?
Verdict?

Totes worth it. I mean, do you have eyes? Are you seeing this picture? FYI that is a warm wafel de liege coyly blanketed in a gooey layer of nutella, the powdered sugar on top just enough to make sure we both get diabetes [M1 and I shared one, in some half-ass attempt to justify stuffing our faces with pure sugar and fat].

And stuff our faces we did. About 14 seconds after being handed a paper tray/plate containing belgian deliciousness, we sat in sated insular shock despite the rain coming down from increasingly gray skies. The wind started to pick up, and as the afternoon slipped into the early evening, temperatures dropped just enough to be noticeable.
Half-jogging through the rain to spend some more quality time on the NYC Velo couch, the weather reminded me that it would be fall too soon, school would start, and with it cyclocross season. And with a bike that hovers around a solid 20 pounds, it seems that I'll be doing more spectating than participating again, this year.
Still, I'll be in New England, center of East Coast 'cross. Which makes me think that there's still hope that Boston and I can make it, despite this summer NYC fling.
[And, of course, it's Rapha Scarf Friday.]

only if...

Yesterday morning was a disaster. Zero coffee until 11am, a dentist appointment I was late to, frustration at not really having a bike I can do anything with, the empty sense of not really belonging anywhere, and mood swings like woah.
Funny, how, a little past noon, I was standing in a place I would have never expected to be a year ago, surrounded by friends who work in a bike shop in NYC, comfortably snapping too many pictures. And then having lunch with the incredibly awesome people behind Independent Fabrication.

Yup, that's right. I went to IF. I'm still not quite sure how it happened. But when NYC Velo became an IF dealer a few weeks ago, a trip to Boston was planned, and a casual "you should come" turned into a full day of adventure.
It started, of course, in Somerville, at the infamous IF factory. A place I couldn't have dreamed of entering without some tangible pretext [most likely in the form of a credit card and an order form for a custom frame], I entered empty-handed and left with an SD disk full of pictures, a few new friends, and some capacity to dream of racing bicycles again.

Mostly broke and with a knee that's slowly giving out, but simultaenously terrified of the obligation to race that would come with having a fully-functioning geared bike, I'm currently having a classic love/hate relationship with the Bianchi. Yesterday it was mostly hate/hate to the point where I was hating all bicycles. Yet somehow I dragged the tractorino to Somerville to a place full of too pretty bicycles and a spray-painted wooden sign that demanded those within those factory walls to "Live the Dream."

An audacious command, the desire to do exactly that seems to permeate the people of IF. But in a way that doesn't reek of douchebaggery or condescension. The somewhat intimidatingly large logo on the factory door leads into a bike nerd's paradise, but one that's full of friendly, incredibly laid-back people. Serious people who have managed to retain the fun in their work and craft. And that is impressive.
IF's passion for bicycles cleared the doubting depression over my ability to do anything of value on a bicycle. Team jerseys became coveted items again, as did derailleurs. Over lunch at the Tavern At the End of the World, I even jokingly recalled a casual suggestion that, to me, seemed completely absurd: that I should get an IF and race for NYC Velo in Boston. Too bad it was snatched up as "brilliant" and "great" with Andy and Joe [of IF] informing me that I could "totally pull off a Factory Lightweight" but I'd have to wait on a NYC Velo kit that would actually fit.

I blinked before backpedaling in panicked fear, the thought of an IF Factory Lightweight a little too much for my awkward legs to handle. And while talk of racing seemed centered around the kind that involves two derailleurs, NYC Velo managed to leave with the infamous pursuit IF track bike in the back of their car. I even got to touch it.

With a Dolan in my kitchen, racing track seems much more feasible. But when I do decide on something with multiple gears and the ability to shift between them...well, that Factory Lightweight is looking really sexy...

espresso d'italia

I can be such a bitch in the morning without coffee.
This isn't news. Especially not to me. So I try to do the right thing and inject myself with caffeine before I really speak to anyone at work. That obviously doesn't keep me from being a ranting maniac on the morning commute, but I figure that'll keep me on my toes and somehow prevent me from getting run over. It makes a weird sort of convoluted sense [to me, at least].
So when I showed up at NYC Velo in the late afternoon last weekend and claimed I hadn't had a sip of coffee all day, the bug-eyed suspicious look of incredulous amazement was to be expected. But oddly enough, I wasn't on my typical caffeine withdrawal rampage. Because Andy had just offered to pull a shot of espresso from a chrome box sitting pretty on the counter.

Ah, finally. Finally we meet. Glittering invitingly in a space formerly occupied by a Brooks saddle display was the very limited edition Giotto Giro d'Italia espresso machine [number 62 of the 100 made]. On one of my very first visits to NYC Velo, the idea of purchasing one had been thrown around, gently pushed, and cleverly researched and pitched. With the names of every Giro winner engraved in the side, polished like a bright mirror, and the crowning touch of the pink dial, it belonged in a bike shop. It was just my luck that that bike shop was NYC Velo.

Sitting in my usual spot on the couch, I sipped a delicious shot of pure, thick espresso. Just strong enough to remind my blood to turn it up a notch, within seconds my caffeine-starved brain started to hum into a happy high. I instantly forgot about my cramped shoulder and that uncontrollable, animalistic need to bite someone's - anyone's - head off with some snarky i-totally-have-a-tree-up-my-ass comment.
Fully aware of this neatly averted disaster, it was the least I could do, the following day, to deliver half a dozen cupcakes from Pinisi to a bike shop that I'm starting to call my New York home. They were devoured in the typical style of starving bike mechanics, with Jared - the first Cat 1 racer I've ever met - even posing for pictures.

And this afternoon, the deal gets even sweeter. Because these guys are coming up to Boston, and I've been invited on their little excursion. Good [free] espresso might still be a few weekends away, but running around my city with new friends will probably be enough to keep the bitchery at bay.
...Probably.

pins and needles

Despite all the pins and needles scattered around my desk and floor, it's my knee that's feeling it today.
But it was so worth it.
Yesterday was gorgeously beautiful; a clear summer day with radiant blue skies and the kinds of clouds you want to chase on a bicycle. Summer had arrived in Boston at last. And that kind of weather necessitates a post-work bike ride, even if you've been battling the urge to pass out at your desk since 3.00pm.

And what perfect timing, too. Projects have entered that lull in the storm where waiting becomes the primary task. Restless waiting. The kind that just seems to take longer when you've been cooped inside for extended periods of time. Besides, one look at my desk and it's obvious that I've been doing too much of one thing and not enough of another.
I love Rapha [clearly] and le Tour, but watching, looking, seeing others ride had me itching to get back on the bike. And yesterday, for the first time in weeks, I rolled around slow and happy, with only dinner and a crumpled shirt in need of ironing waiting at home. No five hour stretches of eye-searing, temple-hammering work, post-real work. No to do list that never got completely checked off. No stressful mess of hats that had to be completed by whatever date.

Not that I don't enjoy that kind of work. I'm a workaholic, after all. Just that sometimes, when I manage to give in to that small tiny voice that tells me to relax a little bit, I need my rides to be long stretches of mental numbness concerning the uncertain future. Just me and my bicycle, here, now, in the present.
A friend - a runner who sometimes cycles - complained to me the other day about how long it took to go on rides.
"It takes hours. I can just go and do an hour of running."
True. But that's what I love about cycling. Hours and hours of solitary quality time with some steel/aluminum/carbon fiber tubing. The ability to get away from it all. The inexplicable feeling of getting lost but forgetting all about going home because this grassy field you've just discovered is fucking awesome.
I need to do more of that. A lot more.
Now if only this knee will hold up.

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.

monsoon in mass

I firmly believe there are three kinds of sweat: the hot, dry kind of casual summer rides around town, the squeamishly humid kind that won't ever seem to abate, and last but not least [and possibly the best], the drenching, dripping, addicting kind that can only be a product of a decent training ride.
I've been experiencing too much of the second kind these days.

And even if I've spent the past few days running around NYC, then Boston, with someone who's already seen me sweaty and eyeliner-less, it's still bothering me. The sweat, that is. Or, more accurately, the sweat/rainwater mix that necessitates cycling in a soft shell jacket which can never ventilate fast enough and instead wraps me up in its suffocating, sauna-like grip. By the time I get to work, I'm almost dizzy with dehydration.
Okay, it's not that bad. But when you have a friend visiting, the rain tends to really kill your plans. Thank God, though, that M1 loves good coffee, because other than my favorite bike shops [IBC and CB], I'm only capable of hanging out at places where I can cradle a good Americano.

So after a [too early] Sunday morning bus ride back to Boston, that's exactly what I was doing at Cafe Fixe, savoring an intensely dark Americano in small sips until I felt my heart pumping that rich brown liquid through my veins. Caffeine buzzing in my brain, I wondered what I would do without promises of coffee waiting for me before, after, and in between rides [the answer being "be more of a complete raging psycho-bitch"].

Especially when the weather outside makes you simultaneously shiver and sweat; the rain sticking to your skin and mixing with that humid steam that won't stop pouring out of your pores. And especially when, in typical New England style, you finally jump back onto your bike after taking shelter under some scaffolding because you think the rain's let up, only to be caught in a mini hurricane on your way across the Mass Ave bridge.
At least there were more friends and a piping hot Americano waiting for me on the other side.
If I keep this up, stock prices for espresso beans is going to skyrocket.