a superb elite [party]

It's Friday night, and there's a hand sneaking in between my legs. Fingers brush my inner thigh as I squeal and giggle.
I wasn't tipsy at all. Just a little drunk off adrenaline from the Superb Grand Opening party.
I had cleared my schedule weeks in advance for this party [and not only because cassette was a sponsor]. With a Fuji Feather being given away, who wouldn't? But there was also the promise of "fraternaliz[ing] with Boston's cycling elite." And knowing Superb was going to fully deliver on that promise, it's a party I wasn't going to miss.

Arriving close to an hour after the doors opened, the place was already packed. Bikes lined both sides of the new shop, and people had spilled out onto the sidewalk. Squeezing our bikes into a narrow open space and locking them up, M1 and I ran into none other than Mr. Igleheart, the awesomely friendly framebuilder behind those delicious bikes that "ride like butter" [I wasn't kidding when I told him that I was saving up for one of his frames]. And as I turned around, ready to elbow my way into the shop, I waved hello to Marty of Geekhouse. This was going to be a really good party.
Inside, people swirled around the central display of bikes underneath the chandelier. There was a wave and thumbs up exchange between myself and Tyler of IF, an introduction to James of Revolution Bicycle Repair [he and M1 worked downtown together back in the day], and quick hellos to Croth and Kip. Lucas Brunelle was sighted, as was Joe of Sugar Coat and Geekhouse, and of course, all the hot Asian girls of Cambridge Bikes. Jason, the mastermind behind Superb, clearly delivered on his promise, and more.

Good beats streamed from the speakers as people moved around the room. Stepping outside to check on our bikes and cool off, another Boston cycling persona, Natasha of Pedal Power Photography, rolled up. In great company, we checked out the array of bicycles entered into the "Hot Bike Contest." The contestants varied from a slick Specialized to a swoon-worthy vintage Pinarello pursuit frame with a tri-color, glittery paint job. While I regretted not riding the Dolan in, even with its new fall/winter 2009 look [coming soon!], a part of me knew that it probably wouldn't have stood a chance with this kind of competition.
But I did take part in another kind of contest: $3 got Team Cassette 5 tickets into the raffle. With fingers crossed that we'd win something a Fuji Feather, we checked out the rest of the prizes and ate up some of Jason's time before we reluctantly headed out the door for a friend's birthday party. It was early, the party was still in full swing, but I didn't feel lame leaving. Superb tends to have that effect; there's no insecure pre-judgment of those who walk in the door, but you better be prepared to walk out feeling not only cooler but also like you've just managed to infiltrate Boston's decidedly unpretentious cycling elite.

Which would explain the big smile on my face as I rolled away from 842 Beacon Street, despite my early departure. Thighs even pumped harder as we sped around taxis in Friday night traffic, spinning wheels and pedals to the next scheduled event of the night. And on the way, that hand. My palms seared with cold nervous sweat in response.
"Got it," M1 said as he drew up next to me.
I relaxed as we surged up a hill - no longer needing to hold a motionless line - mashing en danseuse on the pedals, secure in the knowledge that the Knog Beetle on my seatpost was now diligently blinking red.
[More pictures of the event here.]

an empire state of mind

I never believed in taking "breaks" from a relationship. When friends would tell me that they were "going on a break" from their [once] significant others, it always just sounded like they were "going on a [really drawn out path towards] break[ing up]."
Of course, it takes falling in love really hard to finally see that periodic absences are sometimes a good thing, and that any intense kind of soul-wrenching love will, at a certain point, get slightly suffocating. Not that it's not hard; but a little time away can make the heart grow fonder...or at least fond enough where quirks are once again charming as opposed to annoying, and you can politely laugh at not-so-funny jokes, instead of rolling your eyes.

So when I arrived in NYC and had to climb five flights of stairs with an Ortlieb bag that weighed almost half my weight and the tractorino that is my bike, I almost gladly used it as an excuse to take some time off the bike. For a full weekend.
Incredible, right? Even I was amazed. But I somehow told myself that this foreign concept of walking more than 20 feet a day was going to be good for me. I'll be using muscles that I just don't use when I'm sitting on my bike or sitting in front of my computer or sitting around with friends. I'll see things that I'll zoom past on a bike. It'll be like riding my bike for the first time to school, I told myself, except slower, and I'll be working my pathetically weak core...!

I wasn't totally wrong. My legs were dead by the end of each day, and climbing those five flights of stairs multiple times a day worked my thighs and glutes harder than my rollers. I realized I could still walk several miles without my legs falling off, but also, how much easier/faster/more efficient/less painful it is to ride a bike.

But I also saw things that I wouldn't have seen on a bicycle. A peculiar man wrapped in some knit garment, hanging out on a crowded corner by Union Square, my legs fully covered in proper pants [not leggings], and despite the bike-friendly reputation of NYC [at least as compared to Boston], walking into Stumptown coffee was way easier sans bike.

Still, I missed the love of my lifey. Or at least riding her...which, given my sometimes-rocky-always-schizophrenic relationship with my bike, is enough to have me jumping back into the saddle. I love New York - and oh the pounds I'd shed if I lived and walked there! - but for today, I'm a little bit glad to be headed back to Boston, where an empty fridge means an excuse to spend that much more time with my two-wheeled wonder.
Sometimes, we all just need a little time away.

'cross awesome

Another Embrocation Cycling Journal Monday...

Apologies for the lack of a drawing...next time, I promise!
Now go read my real post...

an outlier problem

You know you're at Interbike when the day starts with a stop by a suite at the Venetian, and the elevator next to you spits out a guy in a full kit on his bike, who clips in and rides his way to his hotel room.
But you know the day's going to be really good when it involves a cell phone sound system, Bouchon Bakery, and independent cycling apparel designers in the form of Outlier and Swrve.

A month and a little bit ago, M1 and I met Tyler and Abe of Outlier. Over lattes and iced coffees, we chatted about printing shirts, fondled their new Merino T-shirt [which feels like a soft black cloud of air], and when Interbike came up, they let us in on a plan for a trunk show. After saying our goodbyes, M1 and I babbled excitedly about it. And before we knew it, we were sitting in a suite at the Venetian with Tyler, Abe, Matt, and Miriam [of Swrve].

The trunk show - and all the running back and forth it involved - was possibly the most fun I had in Vegas. Because while both Outlier and Swrve obviously take their craft seriously, they not only deliver quality products, but are some of the friendliest people in the industry. Getting excited over how good ak-mak crackers are [they are addictive] wasn't stupid, but awesome. And feeling lazily comfortable after a morning and then some spent on my feet, I even managed to pop my cherry on one of the couches.

My Bouchon Bakery cherry, that is. We scarfed down sandwiches with a coffee so dark it tasted like an Americano [except...almost better, if that's even possible], and an Americano with crema so thick it almost looked like a latte. One bite of the huge oatmeal-raisin cookie and I fully, completely, and totally understood Abe's admission when he said had a "Bouchon problem."
Tummies full and re-energized, we headed down to the Momentum fashion show...And I ended up in an elevator with Jason and his Walmart Huffy [which he later did a barspin with]. It sat in the suite along with Affinity's new road frame [with complete Sram Red] as Outlier's Workwear pants and 4 Season OG pants flew into eager hands [they are hottt]. People marveled at their Merino T-shirt and the soft texture of their Merino hoodie as Tyler danced to the Major Lazer streaming out of his cell phone. M1 tried on a pair of the Workwear pants and had paid for them before I asked if he was getting them. I couldn't resist and bought a cap. Can I say I can't wait for their womens' pants?

It was over almost too quickly, although my legs felt dead. People drifted off to the Crit as we wrapped up our things and sat for a few minutes in the quiet aftermath of a good event. I left the next morning without seeing Outlier or Swrve but emailed thanks and mentioned indulging our respective "Bouchon problems" again.
"Bouchon, anytime..." came the reply. Yup, these are definitely my kind of people.

a celebration of taste

I'm actually not that much of a party girl.
Notwithstanding the complete lack of rack that is required to look good in backless club wear, a glass of beer can make the room spin for me. Chimay will absolutely floor me. Dancing in heels all night is a skill I never bothered to perfect. I'd just really rather stay in and lube my chains.
But when something's been talked about for weeks - yup, that's right, weeks - in advance, I'll promise myself that I won't "accidentally" fall asleep or "get sick" that night [okay, I did fall asleep after dinner but I was working on 4 hours of sleep!].

Of course, I'm talking about the "Celebration of Sport a.k.a. Tastemaker's Party." Sponsored by Rapha, Ridley, Fizik, Embrocation Cycling Journal, IF, and Knog, I had received an invite long enough ago that I couldn't remember if I'd actually been invited [M1 informed me that I had been]. Which is a good thing, because I had promised Jason [a.k.a. DJ Mayhem for the night] that I would be attending. And when Jason spins, well, it's a guaranteed fun time.
So I was looking forward to it as soon as I landed in Vegas, groggy and gimpy from a broken IT band. I then proceeded to promptly forget about any stabbing pain in my knee in the excitement of Interbike; and any complaints of being completely exhausted vanished when James produced, from his magical pocket full of goodies, yet another party invite in the form of a pin [plus an Embrocation Cycling Journal pin!].

When I was finally roused from my death-like post-dinner nap, we squeezed into a taxi and headed to the Artisan Hotel. Dimly lit, with faux masterpieces plastered on the walls and ceilings, the Artisan is to the rest of Vegas what a chilled-out jazz lounge is to a warehouse rave. And in the center of the bar, lit up by bright Knog lights, was the new IF grass track bike. You could almost imagine it cooing great jazz.
Until, of course, Jason took the wheels and turned up the happy notch, mixing 80s hits in a suit [with suspenders!]. People flowed in and out, casually chatting, somehow forgetting that the male:female ratio would have been considered downright pathetic in any regular bar.

Still, they were all tastemakers. Scanning the room, I saw a tall redhead and attempted to wave to get his attention, then squeezed past some people to say hi. It was Tyler, and next to him, Abe, of Outlier. As I excitedly said hi, picking up the conversation from the first time we met a month or so ago, a man turned to me:
"Excuse me, are you Kaiko?"
It was none other than Velodramatic! It was my first time speaking to him face-to-face, and he is as awesome as I imagined. With Velodramatic to my left, Outlier on my right, Jason DJing, Marty at the bar, M1 representing cassette and Gage & Desoto...all surrounded by Rapha...When you add up the names of everyone I knew there - a small minority - you get a sense of how many heavy-hitters were in attendance.

We escaped to the hotel lobby as the temperature in the bar started to noticeably rise, and after talking about the next day's planned events, the ridiculousness of Vegas, and whether we should go to a strip club, we found ourselves completely cracked. Saying our goodbyes, we left the quirky Artisan and headed back to the glitz of the Strip.
My legs weren't wobbly, but I felt as if I had spent the night dancing my feet off at overpriced clubs in downtown Tokyo. I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow, dreaming of custom invites in the form of pins, an awesome 80s soundtrack, high-end cycling apparel, and, of course, bicycles.
[More tomorrow on some hot pants, new addictions, and cell phone sound systems...]

interbike buffet

Las Vegas is, as everyone knows, very full of sex, strippers, casinos, and buffets.
And for one week in late September, bicycles.
I want to analogize Interbike to sex or strippers, really, I do. But entering into the Sands Convention Center and finding yourself surrounded by fellow bike nerds in t-shirts, shorts, and Tevas is actually not that sexy. The harsh fluorescent light - unlike the dimly lit casinos that seem to whisper and hint at lucky fortunes to be made - kills any sense of mystique. Interbike is not really sexy or enigmatic.

But it is kind of like a Las Vegas buffet.
The spread of booths sprawled under glowing lights, offering a different little something to the people that pass by, is, at first, incredibly overwhelming. And like that initial pause when presented with a plate and 30 different kinds of food, I had no idea where to start. So for the first five minutes I was there, I did the equivalent of gripping my plate to my chest and standing there. And gaping.

Just holding the multi-page map booklet was a little much. I probably would have been paralyzed by confusion if not for the realization that I had to keep pace with Interbike-veteran friends or risk losing them for the rest of the day. It took about 10 minutes for me to dig out my camera and finally start taking pictures. I had no idea what I was doing there.
But I dove in anyway, sampling this and that, peeking and peering into booths and even going so far as to touch an unaffordable bicycle or two. Self-consciousness slowly slipped away and energy boosted by some Clif Shot Roks [the peanut butter ones are incredibly yummy], I was feeling shameless enough to squeal and coo excitedly over Phil Wood's display of cogs, hubs, and bottom brackets. Days later, I'm still trying to digest how incredibly cute their 12T cog is [half of me is attempting to convince the other half that a 46/12 gearing is perfectly reasonable].

And then there were the bicycles. Single-speed Pinarellos, jaw-dropping Pegorettis, latte-like Bianchis, and candy-apple red De Rosas. Colnagos of every shape and size. Monochromatic Kuotas [Floyd Landis included!]. And an eye-popping Geekhouse 'cross bike.

Mixed in between gluttonous inhalations of everything bike, friends were also sought out. Tracking down Jason at the Shimano booth, we managed to bump into James who emptied the contents of his pockets into my eager hands [more on that later] before winding our way to where Marty was hanging out. And as far as I could tell, we were all shamelessly indulging in everything Interbike had to offer.

But like the curse of buffets, Interbike can really only be fully appreciated in hindsight. Even with two full days in Vegas, I jetted away towards my colder city on Friday with lingering thoughts of "Man, I wish I had spent more time at..." and "Crap, I forgot to go to..."

Until next year, maybe. And while I'll miss it in the interim, I'm slightly grateful for the year-long wait. Because like the buffet I shamelessly ate on Wednesday night, it's going to take a little while to fully recover from Interbike.
[Pictures here...and more on Interbike later...]