bottled martinis

Having realized that Dragonforce in the morning can only get you so far on the rollers, I have shamelessly embraced Hulu like a fat kid clutches onto his prized sack of Halloween candy. Somehow, when you're on the rollers and the sun hasn't come out yet, it's perfectly okay to start your day with a little House M.D., even if that means you're going to get to school barely in time for your 10am class.
It was on one of those sweat sessions with Hulu that I came across a commercial for the Smirnoff Pomegranate Martini. Prepackaged vodka, pomegranate juice, and Meyer lemon liqueur, the voice-over guaranteed "the perfect cocktail with every pour." I almost stopped pedaling in horror.
Because, like most things, when you get used to the real thing [or even just the better thing], it's hard to....well, downgrade. What to a college student might seem convenient and palatable becomes, after a few real cocktails, a cheap attempt at bottled class that shouldn't be touched with a ten foot pole. Call me a snob, but if given the choice between Smirnoff Pomegranate Martini and Natty Light, I'd probably go for the latter. At least the frat boy beirut beer of choice isn't trying to pretend it's something other than what it really is [i.e., shitty beer].

And the same goes for bikes and the people who ride them. Though I'm capable of standing over M1's Cyfac, I've refused to ride it in part due to the full C-Record gruppo. It's not because I might crash it [although, due to my clumsiness, that's a very real possibility], it's because I know I'll never forget how it feels. And with a wallet that lacks a third dimension these days, whatever gruppo I may be able to afford won't be anything close to Campy. It's like driving a Lamborghini and then spending the rest of your life comparing it to the late model Hyundai you're currently stuck driving. There's no rational reason for you to do that to yourself.
As for the people, well, they can raise the bar quite a bit as well. Take a handful of experienced cyclists that will easily clock in 200 miles per week and have negative body fat and suddenly hauling a single-speed on the occasional 40 miler becomes embarrassingly pathetic. It's not that they look down on my feeble attempts at cycling; in fact, they do the opposite. But despite their predictable immaturity [they are all guys] I still look up to them, and they unconsciously have me striving for higher goals this winter.

And I don't just mean in the cycling sphere. Though I'm not into poaching my circle of friends for potential husband material, those seemingly irrational requirements for the ideal significant other have gone from "someone who rides a bike" to "someone who has less than 4% body fat, rides at least 200 miles a week, preferably year around, knows how to fix their bikes, will tolerate my roller coaster mood swings, has a solid sense of humor, isn't completely useless, falls on the smarter side of the scale, and oh did I mention is also swooningly hot?" I know, I ask for a lot [but please, I have a lot to offer, now, don't I? Kidding!]. Blame my frustratingly competent friends but I've been around too much of the real thing these past few months. And between classes, exhaustion, and the rollers, I realized that - though well aware that I may never be able to keep up with those friends on a bicycle - I'll be damned if I'm going to downgrade.
It's like realizing that you're spinning out at your gearing; at which point, why would you switch to a bigger cog [or a smaller chainring]? Okay, there's that whole "because it could kill your knees" which in relationship-speak translates to "because you'll end up a spinster with 20 bikes and 30 cats." Touche. But I'll be a spinster with 20 bikes and 30 cats and still be keeping it real.

Sound irrational? Then go to a real bar, [swallow your insecurities concerning your sexuality...you're a cyclist for God's sake, you should be comfortable with the accusations by now] and order a appletini or whatever fruity martinis they might be offering. Savor it. Then pick up a bottle of Smirnoff Pomegranate Martini at your local liquor shop on your way home. Try to actually drink it [without hurling].
Doesn't seem so irrational now, does it?

doing the wave

There are about three things that make my mornings fully worth it. Post-roller coffee made in my French press, a hardboiled free-range egg from M1's parents' chickens [they are adorable], and Older-Cyclist-Dude-with-the-Amazing-Jackets. The last even waves.
I think we first saw each other earlier this year when it was still frigid out. On Beacon Street right as it bends around the Chestnut Hill Reservoir, he'll be heading downtown as I'm rolling the other way. Both of us in leggings, he always in clipless shoes, me alternating between sneakers and Sidis, we were the select few braving the cold. He waved; not the usual subtle nod or the fingers raised in acknowledgment with a thumb still looped around the bars, but almost as if he were signaling to turn. Hand fully off the bars and fingers outstretched like a small salute. I raised my fingers in response.
We've continued this interaction for a few months now, whenever we see each other. I'm pretty sure he rides through the winter. I'm pretty sure we would be awesome friends.

Okay, I'm probably making that claim because the wave [and, consequently, acknowledgment] - from a clearly[-more]-seasoned[-than-I] cyclist - is really just a form of flattery. It could be explained by your siiiiick bike, or your ability to exude some sort of pro-pheromones [pro-mones? pro-romones?], but the bottom line is that you're getting noticed by someone else. And when that someone else clearly knows his own shit, you get to feel a little more legit.
Especially considering the frugality with which cyclists dispense waves. Not everyone will wave or wave back...which could result in that awkward, extremely uncomfortable feeling where you try to say hello to someone and they blow past you to exchange greetings with someone clearly more socially important. And even if those hints of acknowledgment are based on snap judgments on what you're wearing and how well you can hold a line, [roadies will ignore anything without a helmet on it, while clipless shoes seem to be a good sign that you're not just dicking around on your bike] it still feels pretty good when you get it. Plus, it saves you the trouble of trying to play off that rejected wave as if you were trying to...um...wipe the sweat from your forehead...or something...

But it's funny, because while in actuality it's harder to break into the roadie world, it's the fixsters that will resolutely refuse to nod, wave, or in any other way recognize that another human is on a bicycle. Well, I take that back; unless your bike is a candy-coated, anodized wonder, then they will refuse to acknowledge you, especially if you are sporting a cassette. But somehow, even when I'm struggling and going at the incredible pace of 10mph, experienced roadies will sometimes acknowledge me. And it wasn't until a few nights ago, sipping coffee with a trusted confidante and discussing friendships formed over long hours in the library, that I realized why. Like the 12 hour days good friends and I have spent in the library on weekends, or the weird antics we got into when working on legal memos until 3 in the morning, doing longer road rides can bind strangers together through the experience of common misery. There's an underlying love involved - what else can motivate us to get out of bed at 6am on a Sunday to get a good ride in before noon? - but it's the recognition of suffered pain on a bicycle that seems to dictate whether you get the nod, or not. Pretty bikes will get you looks, but unless you're really riding that thing, it won't get you nods.
There's always an exception, though, isn't there? On a rare occasion when I trotted out the track bike, pretty in pink and fixster-ed out, a familiar cyclist passed by me on his instantly-recognizable celeste green 80s Bianchi. He looked at me quizzically, eyes directed more at the bike than to the person riding it. I raised my hand and waved as he slowly realized that it was the same girl who rides the beat up Bianchi San Jose. He smiled.
Maybe he was just being polite. But I like to think that he knows that I know how to suffer.

eat to compete

"Why do straight girls always try to one-up their friends? It's so weird," my sister once said.
It's true, and something that also baffles me. It seems irrational and disingenuous to claim friendship, then turn around and compare, or worse, compete. The thing is, I'm not sure it's confined to the heterosexual female friendship sphere; we all compete with each other at certain things. Maybe not to the snarky extent that straight girls do, but in a way it's human nature to be just a little bit competitive.
So when the Salahis crashed President Obama's first state dinner last Tuesday night, I pretty much turned around and did the same.
Okay, it wasn't the White House. And it was Thanksgiving. And politics weren't involved. And there was at least an oral invite...so I didn't really crash it a la wannabe celebrities in hot pursuit of relevancy...does it count if I was the only minority...?

Yeah, didn't think so. But it was awesomely fun regardless; an invitation to M1's parents's place in Marshfield resulted in absolute turkey-and-pie coma. Organic, incredibly moist turkey, bright orange winter squash, creamy mashed potatoes, unbelievable stuffing, just-right gravy, amazing apple-cranberry pie, chocolate-pecan pie [yes, that's right, chocolate and pecan], richy frothy eggnog, and, of course, really good coffee. That all went into my stomach. In one sitting. Oh my God, I love America.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking: I'm a total glutton, right? Whatever happened to moderation?
The thing is, when you do on a decent ride on your 25 pounder of a 'cross bike the day before, the only thing you can really do when that voice of moderation pipes up is to tell it to go fuck itself. You know what I mean, we've all been there; legs dead after a ride with a brain caught between hazy sleep and adrenaline fueled alertness. The last thing you want to hear as you cram your mouth full of whatever's in your fridge is that you really need to practice moderation.

And when you do the ride in shitty, cold weather, with gloved fingers alternating between freezing and sweaty, you get a free ticket to stuff yourself silly at your favorite person's parents's house that you almost invited yourself to for Thanksgiving. And free license to polish off the mountain of leftovers you're sent home with as well.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm going to be working off that feast well into this month [can you believe it's December?]. But let's be honest, it was totally worth it; and while Thanksgiving might not exist to fuel off-season training, it's still a pretty good motivator.

covert ops

Despite the hundreds of words I can write, the numerous sites I can read about bicycles, and the fact that my words stumble over themselves when I try to talk about bikes, I find it hard to explain my weekends to friends who don't ride. There's no drama in doing power intervals on my new gearing. No gossip involved in getting my hands greasy tensioning my chain or washing my shorts in my bathtub. So when the polite inquiry into what exactly I did this weekend comes up, I take the easier path. I lie.
It's not a ploy to sound coy or mysterious. I've just sat through enough conversations debating the intricacies of certain sports and the background stats of so-and-so athletes to understand that gushing about gear ratios can border on the annoyingly boring. So I just say, well, I hung out a bit, studied a bit, the usual, nothing special. Unless, of course, they ride a bicycle.

Then, like it or not, I just may babble on for hours. And that's exactly what I did when one of my favorites blew through town from Portland, on a mysterious mission that even I didn't quite fully understand.
I'm talking about the man behind not only Embrocation Cycling Journal, but also Rapha Scarf Fridays [among other ideas cooking in that brain of his]: Mr. Jeremy Dunn. He hooked me into Embrocation over Americanos last spring and while his current residence in Portland makes meeting up slightly difficult, we've managed to stay in touch and even hang out in Vegas. And because of Rapha Scarf Fridays, we had to meet up on Friday morning [at Cafe Fixe!] with a promise to bring our respective scarves.

And over Americanos, I gushed, questioned, laughed, and was completely at ease. Because while I feel cozy around people who ride bikes, I respect, admire, and look up to people who write about bikes. Sometimes they get excited about what I write too [although even I'll admit that it's not very pro], and that passion is infectious enough to have me submitting things for publication in print and chattering about ideas and all those slightly insecure dreams that I still have difficulty articulating.
It was over almost too soon and we headed our separate ways; me to NYC, Jeremy to execute some covert ops. But with identical caps! From his Rapha Fixed Backpack, Jeremy had pulled out a Rapha Oregon Manifest cap, which fits like no other cap I've owned [even mine]. It was met with jealous cries in NYC to which I responded with mock smugness and victorious laughter.

And just when I'm wondering when we'll get to hang out next, I found a package from the UK sitting in my mailbox. Ripping it open, completely confused, I found the newest Rapha catalog and a slim booklet filled with the kind of Rapha bike ride porn [photographed by Ben Ingham] that makes you think that bike rides are never painful and always stylish. Which, I suppose if you're geared up head to toe in Rapha, is probably not inaccurate.
Until we meet again, Mr. Dunn. And maybe, just maybe, I'll even have a road bike by then...
[And speaking of totally awesome bike writers, check out this video of Bill Strickland on FSX.]

drowsy downtown

When I first arrived in Boston, with no friends or knowledge of the city, my best friend directed me to Newbury Street. It's no New York, she cautioned, but it would at least be something to do/see.
She was right. On both points. The long stretch of Newbury Street made for good people watching and a lazy afternoon spent outside. It was distracting enough, but given the long stretch of storefronts, there wasn't much to discover. Side streets didn't lead to the kind of stores you only tell your closest girl friends about. They mostly just led to shittier streets.

It wasn't until I got on a bike and rode down Newbury for the first time that I realized exactly how distracting it is. Because when you're searching for a store [on the lower level of a building, nonetheless], it makes it that much difficult to dodge doors, avoid pedestrians, and impatient wealthy people who would rather run you over and settle the subsequent wrongful death suit than actually slow down. Given that other than strolls around the Public Garden or the Boston Common, I don't find hanging out or cycling in the city very exciting or entertaining, I actually try to avoid the city. Besides, it's flat. Just thinking about it makes me yawn.
But lest readers think that all I do is push the pedals indoors, I ventured outside yesterday. And taking the familiar yet still foreign path downtown and onto Newbury Street, I was slightly optimistic. Cities are supposed to be fun! Shopping is fun [even if it doesn't involve bicycles]! Boston can be fun!

I kept chanting that to myself as I passed unremarkable scenery, boring buildings, and didn't even get to experience the excitement of trying not to get run over. If it wasn't for the wind, it almost felt like my morning roller session where my legs are on autopilot after 15minutes and my mind is off in other universe.
Newbury delivered, however, in the form of double-parked cars, unpredictable drivers, and doors popping open left and right. But too used to the usual suspects, it still wasn't very exciting. Nearly asleep at the handlebars, I suppressed a yawn as I pedaled away from the city towards a place that, while more familiar than downtown Boston, was guaranteed to be a lot more interesting.

It involves bicycles, but you knew that already. But Superb is worth ogling at every opportunity; especially when they're carrying some delicious-looking Igleheart track frames. Emblazoned with both the Igleheart logo on the fork and the Superb logo on the frame, it's a good thing that the smallest size available - which comes in a beautiful purple that I'm pretty sure will complement my existing stable of single-speed ponies - is a 48 [and therefore too big for Asian Short Legs over here].

But it's not just the bicycles. Catching up with Wei Wei is always entertaining to say the least, and I even got to see the new shop clock, made by Tom himself [yes, that is a Campy chainring]. Apparently he plans to make another one to hang from his neck. I think that's a brilliant idea.
Boston can be boring and predictable. But it's the things like Superb that make me glad I started cycling in this city.
[Special edition Rapha Scarf Friday with the man who started it himself!]

superstitious americanos

Like most girls, I secretly love checking my horoscope. I am inclined to believe in compatibility between certain astrological signs but will freely disregard the day's predicted fortunes if it is clearly not in my favor. The next day, I'll get just a tiny bit excited if "flirtatious encounters" are included in the day's fate.
Granted, horoscopes tend to be as hit or miss as my blind stabs at concepts of Corporate Taxation, but that doesn't mean that superstition has no value. Because when things consistently line up and bring good things with it, that's enough to have me convinced that luck might just exist [and doesn't hate me].

You're dying to know this lucky correlation, aren't you? It's actually fairly old news, but one that, I believe, somehow creates this awesome situation where great minds come together to form and execute some fairly incredible ideas. Take one serious cyclist, mix with one part Asian-sensation-cyclist-blogger, brew with two good Americanos, and you have a winning combination. Great ideas will flow. I promise.
It's consistently yielded results; t-shirts, designs, a crew of friends in NYC, and more written words than I can remember typing. How else can you explain the moka pot logo of Embrocation Cycling Journal, their uber secret Mad Alchemy coffee embrocation, the Giro d'Italia espresso machine at NYC Velo, and the beginnings of Outlier [they met at a coffee shop]? It's like a ritual that has to be done between pedalstrokes for amazing to result. Offer me an Americano, while I'm still slightly sweaty from a ride and there's a good chance something awesome will happen [and I'm talking platonically, people].

So it's a little hard for me to turn down an offer to bike over to a reputable cafe that can pull good shots of rich, dark brown inspiration. Cafe Fixe serves up Americanos that, with one sip, will nearly blow your face off, but when M1 comes up to Boston to use my apartment as a base camp for rides to Dover visit and offers to meet up after class, something out west was a little more appropriate. Good thing the Boston Globe did an article on good coffee shops a few weeks ago and mentioned Taste Coffee House in Newtonville.
A plan was formed and duly executed. And while I hesitated over a latte or a regular coffee or the go-to Americano, the last won out as usual. Sipping the dark liquid in shorts due to the incredible weather, the stage was set for some prime scheming. Caffeine making my brain buzz, we chattered and came up with new designs, ideas, and between sentences, commented on the perfectly balanced Americanos.

That cup fueled me through a ride amped up by the persistent buzzing of M1's freewheel behind me. I was breathless when I got home [I had casebooks on my back!], but still humming off the adrenaline and caffeine, even took the Dolan for a quick spin.
I have more plans later this week for coffee. Regardless of my daily horoscope, though, I know this one's going to be equally awesome. Call me superstitious, but I plan to get an Americano. That means good things are gonna happen. Trust.