viva las vegas

My addiction to CSI is only rivaled by my obsession with Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I care deeply about the CSI team, even if Grissom drives me insane. I don't consider them real people like the SVU team, but it's getting there.
So I've been watching CSI while on the rollers, spinning pedals while the camera will circle around the Vegas skyline. The flashing lights and glow of the infamous strip, the scenes shot within casinos. It's the farthest thing from anything cycling related.
Or, so I thought.

This past summer, with the days getting noticeably shorter, my friends started to murmur and buzz about Interbike, the largest North American bicycle trade show. And what a coincidence; every year, this massive convention takes place in, of all places, Las Vegas.
As courier friends head off to Tokyo for CMWC, it seemed as if other bike friends were heading off to Interbike, and I'll be left to live vicariously through both groups of friends through tweets, blogs, and flickr accounts. But apparently I have a few good friends of my own, because one day I woke up, rubbed my eyes, and found a ticket to Vegas [and Interbike] in my inbox.

Panic actually ensued soon after. I insisted I couldn't go. Then when the whole thing started to dawn on me a few days ago, just looking at my bikes had me throwing open my closet and scouring the hangers for what I could possibly wear. And for someone who is extremely comfortable with high levels of frumpiness on my person, that is saying a lot.
I'm giddily nervous. Even if tons of friends will be there. Just thinking about it makes me fidget.
So at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow, I'm boarding a plane for Las Vegas. I don't expect to be able to blog within the whirlwind of Interbike, but I'll try to keep tweeting, and I'll definitely be reporting post-Vegas.
Even if, as they say, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

dovering in

I hate to admit it but I've reached that all too familiar impasse with my usual ride to Arlington. Like that feeling of slight disappointment mixed with guilt you feel when you're hanging out with a really nice person and you try to make a sarcastic joke and they respond with a small frown and the statement, "aww, that's not nice." So to avoid sounding evil and mean you shut the hell up but end up bored out of your mind because walking on eggshells is as socially pleasant as choking on a fork. And eventually you end up avoiding the friend - or in this case, the ride - because they just make you feel bad about yourself and how "not nice" you are.
Truly nice people tend to be extremely boring, but that's not the point here.
The point is that I needed something different. Something interesting that would stroke my ego a bit. Kind of like the gay bitchy queen friend that every girl really should have. And I found it this past weekend. In, of all places, Dover, MA.

The route I took was given to me by a Rapha Conti rider months ago, but slightly intimidated by it all, I sat on it for a while. Back then, I was still hopeful that the ride to Arlington could keep me interested; people always say how nice it is to ride out there. There was no way - I thought - that this ride and I wouldn't get along.
But my interest started to fizzle and fade, and when M1 offered to recon a new ride with me last weekend, I dove in.
Being immediately suspicious of the hype that tends to surround extremely charismatic people, I braced myself for a bit of disappointment. Cyclists in Boston always talk about Dover and how awesome it is to ride out there. But like attractive people with little inner content, maybe, I thought, it was a boring ride with pretty scenery. Maybe it'll only keep my attention for a few weekends, and it'll be back to sweating over rollers because the whole outdoor cycling thing just wasn't doing it for me.

For once, though, I was elated to be wrong. The thing about Dover is that it's actually interesting. A good mix of flat terrain broken up with the occasional hill or two, and streets that are to Boston asphalt what Belvedere is to the stuff that comes exclusively in plastic handles. It's the boy you're staying up too late talking to about how awesome Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go is, not the one you just sort of like to look at but can't talk to because he just doesn't get your jokes.

Don't get me wrong. That doesn't mean that the ride isn't absolutely stunning. It's gorgeous, and then some. The narrow road is surrounded by incredible skies, fields, and farms [we passed Chickering Farm with a sign that stated it was established in 1690!]. A beekeeper was tending to his buzzing workers as we slid by, and horses looked at us curiously. It was amazing.
And because a ride is never complete without some kind of sugar-laden something, we stopped by Abbott's in Needham for frozen custard. Deliciously cold and gooey, it was like frozen yogurt and ice cream had a love child and offered it up to my growling stomach. It hit the spot, and was just sweet enough to power us through the brief rain shower on the way back home.

If my Dover ride was a real person, I'd be swooning over its sheer perfection. Just my luck that it isn't, because I really hate to share.

wafelocross

I [fortunately?] have a few friends who have enough social influence to enable them to drag me out to events I have no desire of attending. This usually involves countless excuses on my part, then having said excuses shot down too efficiently and a half-joking ultimatum that not going would entail the end of our friendship. And this always involves rearranging my whole entire weekend schedule to make up for lost time.
So while I might actually wake up the next day, mascara smeared all over my eyelids, and concede that I was glad that I went out, that's not to say that the rest of the weekend won't be stressful. Going out actually makes me scramble out of bed at some absurd hour the next morning, and race to some secluded, quiet spot with my books for the rest of the weekend. I like to save myself the resulting panic and just putz away at whatever I have to do over the entire weekend, including Friday night.

One main reason that while friends in NYC were planning their first ever NYC Velo Cyclocross Season Kick-off event, I resolutely reasoned to myself that I could not possibly go. I wanted to. Desperately, in fact. But Federal Income Taxation of Corporate Enterprise stared up at me accusingly. It sucked. I just couldn't.
And then I woke up on Saturday in NYC and walked over bright and early to a bike shop milling about with friends and customers, and lucky for everyone in attendance, the Wafels & Dinges truck was there as well.

Inside, shots of espresso were being pulled and 'cross bikes examined. Questions were fielded and directed to a number of seasoned 'cross racers. Cards were exchanged in between bites of bacon-filled wafels. Embrocation and creams tested while talk of how the season went bounced amongst the attendees.
Maybe it was the sugar, but squeezing between new and old 'cross racers alike, there was nothing inaccessibly serious about the whole thing. Well, that's not quite accurate. The only thing really serious about the Kickoff party was the deadpan conviction that practically simmered in those who have discovered the wonders of 'cross that this was the single, most teeth-gnashing fun that you could ever have on a bicycle.

Which would sound slightly creepy if it wasn't for the fact that nearly every single person who races 'cross seems to passionately believe in this. And though cyclists tend to fall on the insane side of psychotic, there's always something to be said for consistency.
The NYC Velo Cyclocross Season Kickoff Party only served to heighten the excitement that seems to be bursting out of those in love with 'cross, just as the season starts to get into gear. And it's infectious, too. Because everyone seems to be talking about cyclocross this year.

If I had the funds and the bike, even I'd be up for embarrassing myself by face-planting in some mud on a cold, autumn New England day. And I'm pretty sure it won't just be for the wafels.
[More pictures of the event here.]

labored breathing

Freshman year of college, my neighbor used to get it on with his girlfriend at the weirdest time of day. In the early afternoon hours, my room mate would point to the wall and we would hear labored grunting. From him. His girlfriend remained ominously silent.
It was sort of creepy. Too bad I make those same grunting noises, peppered with gasping sighs, when climbing hills on my preferred ride route. That plus all the sweating and the whole one gear thing and it's easy to see why I opt to suffer alone.
But when a best friend is in town - the kind that will not bat an eye at the sight of me pushing the pedals on the rollers at 7am and instead offer to make coffee - well, I'll make exceptions.

So for the first time in forever, I actually didn't sit in front of a computer or a book on Labor Day. I planted my ass on my Brooks instead and pedaled a little over 40 miles [the first time I've done over 30 in about two months...the shame, I know] with the kind of company that won't drop me.
And, of course, the kind of company I'm totally comfortable grunting and gasping in front of. Out of the saddle on the climb that tends to kill me, I was inevitably making those kinds of noises that are completely acceptable when you're torturing yourself alone but are slightly inappropriate when you're with company. And just when I was in no shape to tell him to fuck off:
"Wow. You're either having a really good time or a really bad time," M1 commented.

My retort ended in a laugh/cough combo as he literally pushed me - sputtering and gasping for him to cut it out because that was cheating - the last five feet of the climb. A few more hills, a dead sprint at the slow-for-anyone-but-me speed of 22mph, and we were at Arlington in record time. I was ready to pass the fuck out.

Famished but reluctant to let the beautifully perfect weather slip away, we made a quick detour to a place that didn't look like anything Boston or New York City. And winding our way around part of the Minute Man National Historic Park, I also managed to forget how dead tired I was.
Hours later, slowly savoring espresso bean ice cream from 3 Scoops, I realized that I had forgotten all about the grunting, too. Which is not only testament to the strength of my short-term memory, but also how I couldn't care less. At least not with the company I was with.
Because when I quoted the last line of Casablanca to M1 way back in May, I really meant it.

appreciating filth

At lunch with my handful of law school friends, we ended up joking around about how we were convinced one of our professors ate crickets all day [yeah, don't ask]. A girl at the end of the table - one I had never spoken to before - shrugged, saying:
"Well, I bet there's a lot of protein in crickets."
"Yeah, but you can say the same thing about jizz too; doesn't mean both aren't completely disgusting to consume," I responded.

Her jaw dropped as I managed to finally snap mine shut. Oh shit, was I not in a bike shop?
Hang out at a bike shop for long enough and you end up in a blissful bubble of bicycles and jokes that go beyond "dirty" and enter into the realm of "completely socially unacceptable." Loiter constantly at one and you inevitable end up joining in on the crude jokes. Conversations concerning various bodily orifices and fluids become the norm. Nothing is off limits.
Which is a problem [apparently] when you have to go back to the professional graduate school environment of law school.

Not to mention that, on top of all trying to adjust to the school work, classes, and the concept of no free time, the last thing I needed to find out was that my sense of decency was as calloused as my hands. Sure, my go-to group of friends are all male; but that doesn't mean they aren't sometimes staring at me in disbelief. I hate to admit it, but even after a mere three months away, it takes a little time to adjust to social situations in which I'm actually the most obscene mouth around, not the least.
So, mindful of the company I'm in, I've been trying to keep things civil, muting my inner sailor while minimizing human contact. I feel like a fish out of water.

But just when I was trying to come up with a bike part or accessory that would lead me into the comfortable depths of a bike shop, and consequently the warm embrace of inappropriate jokes, an email popped into my inbox. Subject line: "quote of the day..."
"...from Brett..." it continued. Sent from inside a bike shop, I was immediately crinkling my nose is disgust. But smiling too. It's good to know [at least some] bike people share my disgustingly crude sense of humor.

giving chase

I hate the whole concept of playing hard to get, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good chase.
Because you want the potential significant other to match you in terms of wits, humor, and even style. And if you're as neurotic as I am and you go so far as to check out another person's gruppo, you want them to at least match - if not exceed - your power to weight ratio too.
So I've been doing a little chasing these past few days. You know, just for fun. Because, as they say, "the day you stop looking is the day you die."

Too bad there's another mantra that also says, "when you decide to start looking, there will be nothing to look at." I dusted everything in my path on the way to school and back. On one gear. They had quite a few.
Of course, I paid the price later, embarrassing rivers of sweat erupting all over my body as I bought my case books. The worst part being that it didn't even seem worth it; I wasn't hurting enough. My lungs didn't feel like they were going to collapse. My throat wasn't trying to vomit out my heart. I wasn't sucking in air so hard my eyeballs hurt. That spark just wasn't there.

Resigned at the outcome of my boring commute, I dragged my pedals to Kinko's after class. But as I unlocked my bike, I saw him. Mystery IBC kit guy. Very cute, very fit, and very very married. I knew I wasn't going to catch him, and that totally turned me on.

My womanly resolve of "I WILL NOT TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER!!!!111!1" kicked in and I chased. And chased and chased and chased. He easily slid away, and caught at a red light I couldn't possibly run, I watched him disappear. Sigh.
If only I had gears. But then again, maybe I shouldn't be considering trying to wreck a happy home.