beating bikes

School's officially starting on Monday
I use the term "starting" loosely, because I've been going to school almost every day this week. Mostly to hunch over a computer, hand poised over my mouse, cite-checking and making sure things are in correct Bluebook form. At least I'm not alone, though. A journal mate occupying the desk next to mine turned to look out the window, saying:
"Man, it's such a nice day out today too...Well, judging from the walk from my car to the school."
He turned to me when I laughed in response, adding,
"At least you bike here; you get to enjoy being outside a little."

True, but for how much longer? With the prospect of bike rides limited mostly to my pathetic commute to school, and concerns of what exactly I could write about every single day, by the end of the day, I was feeling as crumpled as the drain that I park in front of. And while the rollers are keeping my thighs on the firmer side of flabby, winter always seems to turn me into a mushy, stiff mess.

But climbing that hill on Comm Ave, and slowing to a crawl on my new-ish gearing, I almost laughed. A year and half ago, I was walking up this thing, with gearing that was significantly spinny-er. And I just rode down this same street no-handed. Something I couldn't do even two months ago.
Hopeful that the sun bathing the backs of my calves will somehow even out my ridiculous tan, I ran some errands around town in the last hours of daylight. And my bike luck turning, I ran into Boston's Cutest Messenger, riding, as usual, on the insane side of dangerous: clipless, brakeless, and helmetless.

Trying to keep my inner cougar from pouncing on him [he's 19. sigh. SIGH.], we rode for a few blocks together, me just a little ahead of him. And turning my head when he called out goodbye, I heard a bro-dude shout:
"You can beat him!"
Actually, I couldn't even if I tried. I was also furiously winded after trying to actually stay ahead of Boston's Cutest. The planned attack on the following hills were done with half-hearted enthusiasm between slightly uncomfortable gulps of air. Man, I'm slow and weak.
School's only going to make all this worse. But surprisingly, I think I'm okay with that. At least for [right] now.
I'm a busy girl. And perfection's tough, you know?
[And yes, it is Rapha Scarf Friday...]

summer lovin'

They say summers aren't complete without a kind of [briefly ridiculous] love. Preferably one with a partner that would otherwise be unattainable/unrealistic/undateable. Because for three hot months, you can just ignore the glaring signs that things will fizzle out come September. It's summer. Time to make some embarrassing forgettable choices!
To be honest, this whole notion of summer loving was sort of bothering me. Not in that gratingly irritating thorn-in-my-side kind of way, but in that I'm-totally-constipated-and-all-I-can-poop-out-are-rabbit-pellets-and-it-feels-like-there-are-ten-pounds-of-poop-in-my-intestines kind of way. You know what I mean.

In any case, maybe the fact that summer didn't have time to throw a silly fling my way was a good thing. Because I'm pretty sure it'll be hard to forget the awesome iced coffees at Think and Abraco, perfect sandwiches at Atlas, and parks that keep [lazy] training rides relatively flat and easy. At least not without some heartache.
Oh, NYC. I'm going to miss you.

Because how could I resist your twisted sense of elitist sarcasm as I rode into Manhattan over the Billyburg bridge for the first time earlier this summer, only to be spit out into congested three lane traffic as you sneered, "welcome to Manhattan, you fucking hipsters!"? And what about that perfect couch you sat me down on with the accompanying shot of delicious espresso...in a bike shop, nonetheless? And then what about that time you taught me how to man up and grow a pair and split lanes in some legit traffic?

All of which make me think that this isn't just a fling. And please, I'd like to think you're not unattainable, unrealistic, or undateable. School might be starting in less than a week, but I'm going to be optimistic about this one. Even if the possibility of spending weekends in the city [with the bike] in the next few months seems less plausible than me getting hitched to one of the Schlecks [...sigh]. Even if.
Naive? Probably. Silly? Totally.
But isn't this what's supposed to happen over the summer?

undeniably superb

My love of bike shops is no secret; I'll stubbornly stand in cleats around bike stands, even with a knee that's throbbing and begging me to sit down, to kill time with the best mechanics around, whether in NYC or Boston.
I never thought, though, that I'd have the opportunity to watch a new bike shop develop from gutted out space to awesome concept shop. But every few weeks since early July, that's exactly what I've been doing at a particular spot on Beacon Street.
Yup, that's right. It's open. Superb, that is.

I've hinted at it. I've posted a few vague pictures. I even designed a t-shirt for the shop! But renovations were still going underway at that point, and despite my itchy fingers desperately seeking to post about the shop, I had to resist until it was officially open.
And yeah, it was totally worth the wait.

Back in March when Jason first told me about the new shop, I got excited. But it was that vague kind of excitement where you don't really know what you're getting excited about, just that the person talking to you has some awesome ideas and is actually going to follow through on them. I had no idea what to expect, really, except that the shop colors were going to be gray, teal, and purple.
That drastically changed in July when the real work started in the space formerly known as Boston Bicycle. And as damask was painted onto the walls, new cabinets build, chandeliers installed [possibly my favorite part of the shop], and a fainting chair assembled, my constant exclamations of "oh my God, this is AWESOME!" started sounding almost lame.

Because honestly, it's such an understatement. "Awesome" doesn't do justice to a shop that's clearly been well thought out, and executed with even more care. Stocked with cassette and Gage & Desoto t-shirts [I'm not biased, I promise], vintage jerseys, narifuri bags [possibly the only place you can get these babies in Boston], Phil Wood deliciousness, and Campy peanut butter wrenches, Superb is living up to its name. Add to that a bike inventory that is limited to steel frames [geared and otherwise] and you have a concept shop that has really good taste.

But that doesn't mean that it's inaccessible. Like its brainparent, Jason, Superb is - while almost intimidatingly hip - quietly confident, courteous, and perhaps most importantly [for a bike shop], non-judgmental. Everything from hybrids to track frames walk through the door; drawn to the velodrome display window or just to get a flat fix. And on one recent visit to Superb, a customer paused before heading out with a properly inflated tire:
"You guys did a little rearranging, huh?"
We all blinked. Yeah, you could say that.

courier city

If it isn't obvious already, I've been gathering a list of cities I'd love to live in. NYC, Portland, Seattle, Austin...
And Chicago just made the list.
It really should be on there already; my best friend is at UChicago, and she's always telling me about her incredible vintage finds. But her horror stories of the Windy City weather also had me clutching my radiator in icy fear, not to mention pictures of the Tour Da Chicago. Boston's cold enough for me, I thought, and even Kanye couldn't lure me out to Chi City.
But apparently, the cyclists out there are among the nation's best. Or at least the couriers are.

And they're some of the nicest, too. Looking the farthest thing from a genuine courier, I slyly infiltrated a NACCC party Saturday night at Harper's Ferry, PBR Tallboy in hand, Baileyworks thrown over my shoulder. Good thing DJ Mayhem [a.k.a. Jason] was on the decks [until a random metal band started playing], Geekhouse was in attendance, and I managed to bump into Meghan, one of the funniest girls to throw a leg over a top tube. All of which resulted in me actually getting drunk. And dancing.

And even making new friends! Turns out Meghan was hosting four couriers from Chicago, and in a weird turn of events, I was already Facebook friends with one of them. The only out-of-towners I met this past weekend, they were the antithesis of the judgmental hipster courier stereotype. And milling outside Harper's Ferry after we all got kicked out, bike in hand, I even got asked if I had ever raced my bike 'cross - possibly the last question I ever expected during NACCC.
No surprise, then, that Chicago was already earning big points in my book by the end of the night. Sunday morning, lacking any official NACCC volunteer status, I took Jason up on his generous invitation to hang out at Superb, one of the race checkpoints. Tom was acting as a dispatcher and as couriers flowed in and out, I snapped pictures furiously. Bikes of all shapes and sized rolled through, couriers dressed in everything from Sidis to Chucks, and maps and crumpled manifests were pulled out of Ortlieb, Chrome, and Baileyworks bags.

With open roads and random manifests, there was no way to tell who was winning. And it wasn't until later that night, at the Middle East Downstairs, that I learned that Chicago had not only taken both top male and female courier wins, but that a female courier from Chi City had won best overall. And while I didn't get a picture of this history-making champion, I was fortunate enough to already call Nico, the top male courier for 2009, a [new] friend.

Which makes Chicago that much more appealing. And late Sunday night, goodbye hugs were dispensed, and promises to get in touch if I ever visit Chicago were made. True, the likelihood of getting my butt over there [along with a bike] before full blown winter is slight to none. But I've got that city in my sights; and with a track just north of the city, I'm finding it hard not to book a flight to Chi town, stat. I'll see you guys soon, though. I promise.
[Thanks to Jacobs, Croth, BBMA, and all the volunteers and sponsors that made this year's NACCC an awesome success!]

tannery

I hate it when people ask me whether I prefer hot or cold weather. If I had to absolutely choose one over the other, which one would I pick? Like if all year long, it was either really hot or extremely cold, and you couldn't ever move again. It's kind of asking someone, if forced into this unrealistic hypothetical situation, whether they would rather choke themselves with a spoon or a fork. Both options have their pros and cons; but is this really going to happen?
Wait, I take that back. It actually might [the choking part]. Mostly because this heat is making me do some ridiculous things.
Like how I thought that time on the rollers would be a good idea at 8am, then decided after a pathetic 20 minutes that it wasn't a great idea and that I should really just lie down. And then falling out of my bed when I attempted to actually get up. And then heading to school on underinflated tires, thighs still twitching in protest, to stare at a few books without so much as a sip of coffee to power me through.

All of which resulted in me coming back to my apartment in the scorching afternoon heat, drenched in my own salt water [you might not be able to see it, but that is sweat from my face on my hand]. And to top it all off, I even got to experience exactly what sunblock, sweat, and eyeliner feels like when it drips directly into your eye.
Yeah, yesterday was fucking awesome.
Don't get me wrong, I love the summer. And with temperatures peaking at around 30C [or 90F], and having lived in Tokyo, I really shouldn't be complaining. It's just that I'm starting to look downright ridiculous.
The tan lines, I mean. I'm considering slathering on the fake tanning lotion. Because it's spreading.

Mid-checking-out-my-own-ass-and-weighing-exactly-how-unhappy-I-am-with-its-massive-proportions, I caught a glimpse of the back of my shoulder. Ah, the bane of sleeveless jerseys. Keep in mind that only the back of my shoulder is that tan. The front has some t-shirt tan going on that's a noticeably lighter shade. All exacerbated by the fact that I don't wear tank tops enough because the whole mess is so embarrassing.
Which makes me wonder why I'm actually smiling in that picture. The only plausible explanation is that the heat was going to my brain, again. Because after that picture was taken, I actually considered getting back on the rollers. Without coffee. Again.

The sheer amount of sweat in my hair made me think twice, and after scheduling a haircut, I ended up doing lots and lots of stretching instead [for once]. Weak, I know. But today, I'm out to a ride that might end at the gym, before I attempt to resist the temptation to cut all my hair off. Then, of course, time on the rollers.
Crazy, right?

asian cyclist fetish

Being single and female presents its plethora of problems.
Add "Asian" to the mix and it's like a whole nother universe.
Like if anyone seemingly flirts with me [a rare occurrence, thankfully], I immediately imagine their rooms: a tiny closet-like space filled with anime posters, Asian language books, pictures of ex-girlfriends [all Asian], and a corner devoted to video games. If social escape from said person seems difficult, I usually just try to open my mouth and curse like a sailor in an attempt to dispel any conceptions of the socially docile, obedient, Asian woman who also happens to be a total freak in bed.
I'm not sure if it works, but I've been completely creeped out enough to run the usual checks before entertaining even friendships. Paranoid? Probably. But I like to think I'm more interesting than my ethnicity.
Oddly enough, though, I fully endorsed fetishization yesterday. I even took pictures. In a bathroom.

Okay, it didn't involve anything racy [at least in the normal sense of that term]. Just that it was my first time using the NYC Velo bathroom [despite my love for iced coffee, my propensity to hang out endlessly at NYC Velo, and the fact that iced coffee also has me running to the bathroom every other hour]. And when you find yourself in a "unisex" bathroom/shrine to all things bike, with a wrench for the cold water knob on the sink, well, the camera is bound to come out.
Not to mention that entering NYC Velo's bathroom is like peeking into the Devil's handbook. If putting a ring on [or having a ring put on by] a cyclist is your thing, that is. The walls are plastered with posters of Tour and Giro winners, and where you might expect soft-core porn or Maxim covers, are pictures of Merckx, Lance, and Cipollini.

Which might make you question if putting a ring on the object of your affection [at least in NY state] is actually possible. But blatant homosexual crushes aside, it's also a glimpse into a world that has little room for other loves. And while that kind of obsession can too easily spill over into creepy-ville, I hypocritically felt right at home.

Declaring my approval as I exited the bathroom, I wondered what I would put up on my own bathroom walls. I couldn't think of anything [mostly due to a sheer lack of posters] but late last night after arriving back to my own apartment in Boston, I found it. A picture tweeted by Competitive Cyclist, it's something worth sticking up on a bathroom wall, in front of my desk, or even by my bed. And though still unable to do a wheelie [much less a wheelie off the ground on some bling tdf bike in front of the L'Arc du Triomphe after becoming the first Japanese cyclist to finish a post-war Tour], I'd rock that kit on a 'drome.
I'd even let him put a ring on it.