where are the girls?

Matt was telling me about the cigar bar he was going to later that night:
“Yeah, it’s really cool; the only people there are basically guys...and the waitresses are all women, you know. It feels like what life was probably like in the 50s. But I think it’s important, you know, to have a social space that’s reserved for men.”
I could see it. Dark, polished wood and leather armchairs that were just comfortable enough. Waitresses in black dresses and that richly sweet smell of cigars mingled with testosterone and tasteful cologne.
“Total boy’s club,” I said, rolling my eyes a bit.

And while we laughed at the semi-ridiculousness of it, I wondered again where the girls were. My aching calves and twitching thighs told me that it wouldn’t really matter where they were because I’d never be able to keep up, but I still wondered. And wracking my brain for a social space that might only belong to the women [other than the kitchen], I couldn’t come up with anything.
“I don’t think we have that,” I said, “I don’t think women have a space that’s just for them.”
And in a way, why should they? It isn’t the 50s anymore; there’s really no need for groups of women to gather together to commiserate over cheating husbands. Nowadays, you just kick that asshole to the curb and file for divorce. I mean, sure, we couldn’t get our shit together to get the ERA passed, but that doesn’t mean that women aren’t climbing social, political, and economic ladders. We’re on bicycles, too. Racing them, even.

So yes, in a way, it’s ludicrous to think that women would need to huddle together when they voluntarily signed themselves up for this sport in the first place. In fact, it borders on the insulting to think that women would. I’ve met enough women in cycling to know that they are - for lack of a better word - tough. And why wouldn’t they be? Unlike running, where you probably can’t go 10 feet without meeting some fun, completely you-compatible potential best friend material who will accept you for who you are, slow pace and all, cycling is one of the more isolating sports I’ve participated in. I could ride miles and miles, day after day, without spotting even one woman on a bike in my age group. Which, given my consistently pained expression, gasping breaths, and twitching leg muscles, is probably a blessing in disguise...I’m pretty sure I’d scare off more potential friends than draw them in with the ridiculousness of my current set-up. But the men? Yeah, they’re out there in droves. They’re fricking everywhere, in fact.
Which explains all the penis jokes, plus my complete lack of female friends, but not really where all the girls are at. I’m not talking so much about the hardcore ones...I can easily hit up Cambridge and Natasha for some introductions of that variety if I ever get anything with gears. But you know, something more middle of the road. Do they congregate anywhere? Or are we all just in limbo until we either get way better or decide to just stick to skirts on step-throughs?

On the other hand, maybe it’s all a bit contrived, anyway. Maybe the mutual interest in that generally vague category of “bicycles” would be the only common denominator. Maybe wanting a social space reserved for girls just because the boys have one is sort of silly. And maybe it’s not really worth worrying about, anyway. Because those boys really keep me riding.
Matt and I parted ways later that afternoon. And I knew deep down that if I asked to come with, he wouldn’t mind the female company, even if it was to a pretty much all male cigar bar. I didn’t though, because cigars aren’t really my thing. Who knows if competitive cycling ever will be? Maybe in a few years, maybe never. I think, though, I might prefer riding alone.
At least for now, anyway.

stumbling in stilettos

Track bikes are to ‘cross frames what stilettos are to Crocs. Not everyone can wear them, much less wear them well. To a good portion of the population, the distinctly sharp shoe is simply impracticality in its most feminist-inhibiting form. To others, heels that tower ever higher, ever more constrictive, are something of an art to be mastered at any expense.
Both track bikes and 3 inch pointy-toed stilettos look like [aero] dynamite. But looking good on them takes a fair bit of practice, both indoors and out. Sure, you might be able to saunter effortlessly around your apartment in your best heels...but that’s no guarantee that you can navigate a carpeted room with the same swagger. So while I’m fairly confident in being able to keep the rubber side down on the rollers, encountering wind and real asphalt is a different matter.

There’s some convoluted reason why I have two single-speeds, though, and with laziness plus a tinge of boredom with the usual Dover ride creeping in, it was time to get reacquainted with the Dolan. The bras drying on the top tube got dusted off, the mostly flat tires inflated, and looking every bit the serious cyclist except for the whole sneakers and toe clips part, I jumped on.
Or, clambered on awkwardly. You know those situations where you end up losing your shit at someone and then inadvertently bump into them the next day before you’ve forgiven each other? Or maybe you have forgiven each other via some kind of easily misunderstood medium like email, but have been slightly avoiding each other since? And then you’re thinking, “awwwkwwwarrddd,” but you don’t want to say it because they might misconstrue it and think you’re more of a jackass than you actually are?

That was like me and my own track bike yesterday. It’s not like I don’t remember how to ride fixed, despite all that time I’ve spent on a freewheel. But I’d been severely negligent long enough that I had to do the requisite clumsy dance where we each felt each other out before proceeding with the day’s plan. It only tried to take off my leg off once, but we got along grandly after that. Even the knees cooperated.
It wasn’t a ride at all, just some good ol’ dicking around. I rediscovered things I already knew like “this thing can go fast,” and “holy shit, I cannot stop this thing,” along with “I am extremely uncomfortable going downhill even with a front brake on.” I practiced my trackstand and set a personal best record of .01 seconds.
There was a shower at the end, but no buzzy post-ride exhaustion. I probably burned more calories gchatting trying to decipher my reading later that afternoon. It was [outdoor] time in the [track] saddle though, which, like those awkward post-fight moments with friends, is something I’m just going to have to get used to.
There’s going to be a lot of stumbling involved, of course, but in the end, if there's any correlation between friendships and bicycles, it’ll all be worth it.

of diamonds and ti

“She thinks I’m trying to incite something between you two,” a friend informed me.
Biting back the [completely inappropriate] urge to ask where the kiddie pool filled with KY was, I looked at my friend perplexed. “She” in this case was said friend’s fiancee that I had met for the second time the previous night. We had exchanged hellos, spoken briefly, and I had done the obligatory ogling of the engagement ring. And yet somehow it seemed as if I had sort of fucked up.
Busy debating if that KY comment was still inappropriate, I missed my chance to ask all the important questions like “why does she think that?,” “should I fear for my life?,” or “does she think I’m the asshole or just that you’re one?” before the conversation got derailed. Sort of weirded out by the whole thing, I promptly forgot about it. Until,

“She thinks he’s trying to incite something between you guys.”
Okay, yeah, got it. And, um, no [pleasedon’tkillme].
Fear for my life aside, I can see why I might make an easy target. I rarely see another woman badgering bike mechanics and shop employees as much as I do, much less bombarding them with questions and listening to the responses with the kind of open-mouthed fascination usually only reserved for 5 year olds. I actually have yet to meet another girl who will shun bar-hopping and/or girls’ nights out to hang out with a bunch of dudes who like to talk about bikes. It probably doesn’t help that I have a decidedly inappropriate sense of humor that tends to offend the sensibilities of the fairer sex, either.
It’s a weird situation to be in if you buy into the philosophy that you never want to be “that girl.” You know, the one who only hangs out with guys, brings six-packs of beer to parties, won’t wear a dress, and for the most part avoids traveling in herds. I remember the first time I encountered the presumed collective disdain for the lone female. And even before I found myself in - gasp! - jeans, enlisting a male best friend to drag a keg out of the back of a truck, I thought that everything about that philosophy was sort of...retarded.

To me, it honestly smacked of fear of the unfamiliar. It’s 2010, but women aren’t supposed to be capable of operating in male-saturated environments with any degree of comfort. We’re taught to seek each other out and stick together in the face of unfamiliar situations. Backstabbing might be involved, but apparently that’s a small price to pay if you don’t want to be left to the wolves [i.e., men]. Of course, choosing the path rarely taken in which most of your friends consist of members of the opposite sex flies in the face of all those unwritten yet established rules. And when fiancees and girlfriends of friends don’t get to see exactly how immature my interactions are with their significant others, it’s too easy for misunderstandings to bubble up.
The thing is, all my male friends see me as a dude. And being bike dorks, we’re all just happy that someone else will stand there and listen to us chatter excitedly about hubs or rims or whatever. I’m not hanging out with these guys because I want to hump their top tubes, and neither do they want to hump mine. We’re not obsessed with each other, just with a sport that a lot of people find somewhat silly.
Which I’m sure my friend’s fiancee knows, as they both jet off to a romantic vacay this week. And if she doesn’t, like they say, diamonds last forever. Or at least longer than carbon fiber or Ti.

weekend warrior

I suppose, in a way, that it was completely appropriate to be feeling up a roadie's legs last weekend.
Actually, I felt up two different sets of legs, and the hard substance that the denim was covering up was foreign enough to have me almost groping. In a totally platonic way, though, and we were all doing it.

It wasn't completely out of context; the season is already under way for those on proper teams and for the Cat 1 and 2 whose legs I prodded, groped, and pushed, their legs are fueling up while their cyclocrossing counterparts have peaked, raced, and sprayed down their bikes one last time until fall. But all in that in-between phase where sitting on a couch for two hours without feeling guilty about it is permitted, roadies, 'cross fanatics, and even those like me who don't fall anywhere on that scale, were collected around a TV on Sunday morning.

Because the Cyclocross World Championships was showing. And because NYC Velo promised yummy baked goods and freshly pulled shots of rich, dense espresso.
Which is why I was in NYC in the first place...for the fourth weekend in a row. But while fun is never lacking in the city, like those times when you've fully given up on finding anything worth dating and something perfect walks in the door and hands you their number, weirdly cool things happen when you're not really expecting it. Like learning how to slip a number to a guy who's attached, what hand-pulled beer tastes like, how hard a Cat 1 can punch, and debating the expected ROI on a Diet Coke. Saturday night, Andy was buying first rounds at d.b.a., and totally comfortable about partying on his dime, I had my first Diet Coke in the city with the guys who purposely mis-pronounce my name when I'm in Boston and are under the impression that I'm about the size of a Pomeranian.

And Sunday, we were back at it; this time I came loaded with vegan peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, Andy with espresso and these giant bombs of non-vegan delicious from Birdbath Bakery. Marco even showed up with donuts, which assured that everyone would be in insular shock by noon.
And on a sugar and espresso high, I even met a few twitter friends, met up again with some Rapha Continental riders, and dropped some cash on a cycloputer [my first!], all before I fought through Chinatown to get on a bus back to Boston. Sitting in an old, slightly dirty, crammed bus, I was wired and tired. Somehow, though, I managed to fall asleep, dreamed of bicycles...and woke up near Boston, where schoolwork awaited [sigh].
...Is it the weekend yet?

frozen slow

There are usually two choices when you're stuck out in the frigid cold on a bicycle in too little gear: 1. go as fast as you can while hoping that the resulting body heat you create will somehow overcome the wind that you've also created, or 2. reduce your speed under the theory that less wind means less cold.
I've tried both, and neither work. The results seem to be about the same: blood refuses to circulate to my feet, fingers, or face. To add to the general discomfort, snot will start pouring out my nose; and to add to my general embarrassment, I can't feel most of it dribbling down until almost too late. At that point, there's nowhere to look but up. At least you're on two wheels and you'll get home. At least you're not walking.
But yesterday, I was walking. And it was about 1F.

All the pretty snow earlier in the day turned to the kind of weather that has your ears stinging and your face hurting as soon as you get outside. That balmy weather that made rides outside slightly tolerable? That was the equivalent of God releasing a teaser for a movie that won't come out for another 5 months. Thanks for letting us know what we're missing, big G.
So even though I wouldn't have ridden outside this weekend anyway - given my wind allergy, I think it's safe to say that I tend to prefer riding indoors - I still felt indignant about the weather. Temperatures were low enough that I was looking at a weekend of sitting around my apartment, simultaneously feeling lazy and stressed. The kind of weekend where, unless my pantry and fridge were completely bare, and there was nothing left to eat except wood and toilet paper, I wasn't stepping foot outside.

But then friends down south in the Big Apple decided to put together a party to watch the Cyclocross World Championships taking place in Tabor, Czech Republic, and it would be early enough on Sunday to allow my attendance and still ship back to Boston at a decent hour. I did what any reasonable person would do: I packed a bag, left my helmet at home, and hopped on a bus.
Which resulted in me half jogging down Chrystie Street in inhumane temperatures when I finally got to NYC. To be honest, when I felt the cold air slap my face, I didn't really want to get off the bus. I thought about the rollers in my apartment, felt the guilt of abandoning my bikes there for the weekend. But when friends are involved, there's no shame in slowing down a bit.
And besides, it's way colder up in Boston.
[If you're in the NYC area, come out to the World's party at NYC Velo this Sunday. It'll be fun, I promise!]

nerding out

My entire extended family is cursed with the whole "unable to see clearly" thing. Literally. Family dinners will easily result in every single person wearing a pair of glasses. Once that fact sinks in, it's up to the ones who can sort of see to take one for the team and self-consciously take off their specs. Then we all pretend that we're not all blind.
It's a little embarrassing for all involved when caught in those situations. But Tuesday night, I was with a group of pretty cool people and we were all wearing glasses. And it was awesome.
To be honest, I'm still not sure what Jeremy Dunn and Slate were doing in town, but they were in Boston and suggested meeting up at Superb. Not one to say no to anything bike-related, I jumped on the track bike and made my way to my favorite Boston shop. It's been too long since I've actually just hung out; I was like hey, how do I do this again...?

But of course, not to worry, as the company took any self-imposed obligation to entertain off my shoulders. We hung out in Superb until closing, "covered" for Jason when he had to make some repairs by standing around and chatting, took pictures of each other, and shared tidbits of our respective lives.
I'd like to say that our collective awesome resulted in some mind-blowing stuff. Like we started making fashionable bikes out of our bare hands or something. But like the Clark Kent/Superman dichotomy, the superhero can only come out every so often, and we have events to save that up for. So we Clark Kent-ed by opting for chill beers, Kobe beef hotdogs [for the omnis], and fun times at Aubudon. There was iPhone-age and mucho twittering involved. And with a cell phone that can only 1. make phone calls, 2. take grainy pictures, and 3. text, I had some serious phone envy. And then PVB showed up, raising the IQ level of the table by about 100.

It was getting late too fast and with a 8.30am class for which I hadn't quite done the work, we went our separate ways after a few beers [for the guys; fear of riding my track bike drunk had me sticking to Diet Coke...I AM SUCH A VEGAN TEETOTALER, I KNOW]. It was getting cold, and without a hat, my ears were freezing. The sensation seemed almost surreal.
Talking bikes - even though it was only for 2 hours - makes it seem like spring is just around the corner...