on getting dressed and the rapha continental

This whole thing is starting to get slightly dangerous.
I’m actually beginning to get used to being a completely useless slacker. I’ve spent more afternoons than I’d like to admit watching so-bad-it’s-good true crime shows and back-to-back Law & Order anything. If I’m going to be honest, the only reason I manage to get dressed before 11am every day is because Mike’s espresso machine has been collecting dust since the Rapha Cycle Club opened. I’m currently forced to put something on, walk down too many stairs and over two blocks to collect my morning Americano. Ridiculous, I know.

When the sense that I should be doing something with some semblance of productivity creeps up on me - “guilt” is too strong of a word to use here, I think - I’ve sought solace in my computer screen, attempting to find employment, catch up on blogs, or form my own densely muddied thoughts into words, sentences, or paragraphs. On one particular effort to re-educate myself on what the hell has been going on all summer while I was living under a rock, I found out that Velodramatic has been in France for most of July. In response, I kept my head perfectly still, glanced to my left and right, minimized Chrome and closed my laptop. Mental note made to read that later; sometime soon, I promise, just not now because the concept of Paris [Paris?...PARIS...?!] is a little overwhelming right now.
But despite the promise of vicarious vacays via Velodramatic, and the escape provided by the stacks of blogs and books to consume aside, I’ve still managed to spend most of last week watching and not so much doing. I watched as bags of gravel were shuttled into the Cycle Club, power tools taken out and new pictures hung in the gallery space. I spectated as graphics were laid out for the Rapha Continental gallery opening event Thursday night, and bikes were neatly positioned against each other. Rapha Continental riders themselves were in and out of the space from early Wednesday morning, and a little envious of all the activity buzzing around me, I offered to walk Rich Bravo’s IF - whose saddle comes up to just under my bra - from NYC Velo to the Rapha Cycle Club.

A few hours and a nap later - the latter is quickly becoming part of my everyday routine - I surprised myself by actually getting dressed in more than the Lululemon yoga pants that have turned into my version of what dirty sweatpants are to morbidly obese people. Jeans came out, plus a button down shirt, even a Rapha scarf...! I was pretty impressed.

Anyway, what was probably more impressive was the turn out and the presence of nearly all the framebuilders whose bikes were on display. IF, Igleheart, Seven, Bilenky...it was pretty cool to see the bikes and the people that made them, plus the guys who rode them, and people who are just into bikes in general. Though still in Step 2 of post-bar resocialization, which involves slowly learning how to interact with people on some sort of socially acceptable level, even I found the atmosphere totally chill and fun. And NO, I WASN’T COMPLETELY BLIZTED OFF THAT 40, THANKS.

Straight up sober, I still had lots of fun. I got to watch [among other things] Carey of Rapha [and Director of the Continental] climb into Kansas’ giant bag, met Skull Krusher [more on that later], and observed Cassidy’s attempts at pitching game. All of which made for a pretty solid Thursday evening. After closing up, we headed home where I finally peeled off sweaty jeans and shirt and passed out into the kind of sleep where you wake up feeling so rested it would be downright weird if you weren’t snoring the entire night.
And then I got up, clipped in on an amazing bike and went on a real road ride. More on that, though, later.

getting back on

“Are you coming on the ride tomorrow?”
“Um...no...?” was the most I could manage.
“You should come,” Brett continued, “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”
Though the invitation was appreciated, I couldn’t imagine going up to Piermont on my track bike, especially given the nearly two months that I’ve been off the bike. Flat road, I’ve discovered, is hard enough with my total lack of stamina. Riding at the “easy” pace of 20mph with a few roadies and a particular cyclist who likes to slam the hammer down and keep it that way on the Wednesday Rapha Ride is the last thing I am currently capable of. I mean, it would be awesome if I could do it...but if yesterday’s quick spin was any indication, I have absolutely nada in my legs.

But like because we’re talking about riding a bicycle, the feelings were familiar. The sticky, oily feeling on my face, arms, and legs. The bits of dirt and sand stuck to any uncovered inch of epidermis. That wrung-out feeling in my legs, and the hunger that wasn’t there until it was, in full force, and I would have stuffed anything I could get my hands on into my mouth. But like getting on a bike after too much time away, it was also kind of weird and slightly uncomfortable. I had envisioned that my first post-bar ride would be relaxingly long. Slow, but cathartic. The mental image of turning the pedals was part of my August fantasy of awesome things I was going to do after the bar.
And in this personal fantasy, sweat and exhaustion were involved, but not the pain or the huffing or puffing. With a gusty tailwind up the West Side Highway, the fantasy seemed to be playing out as it had for the past two months in my head. Mike kept it slow and easy on his silver, red, and blue Cyfac, dressed in Rapha black, white, and pink and matching my bike more than his own; but still, reality set in a bit as I hauled ass to keep it at a measly 16mph. Which is something I should have expected, but you know how fantasies go: weakness and lack of fitness never quite make their way into them.

Reality really hit me in the face when I turned around at the GWB. The wind was definitely not feeling me. It wasn’t even like the whole “sorry I’m not feeling you right now, peace out,” but more like “I’m not feeling you right now AND I’M GOING TO SABOTAGE YOUR EVERY EFFORTS.” My legs felt heavy and fairly useless. All of a sudden I was parched and nauseously hungry - that one banana before my ride apparently wasn’t a sufficient breakfast. The humidity that hadn’t been a problem, suddenly was. My fantasy went the way of Andy Schleck’s rear derailleur.
But maybe that’s the way fantasies should go, anyway. The hard at times, assisted by a tailwind at others, facing a decent headwind and consciously struggling some of the time ride felt like it should. And though physically straining, it felt good to be back on the bike, the discomfort slightly reassuring in its familiarity.
Even if I felt like a marshmallow on a tricycle.

lowering the bar

It’s August, unbelievably, and somehow I’ve emerged from the past three weeks conscious, with some of my sanity intact, and done.
200 multiple choice questions, 5 typed New York state law essays, 10 handwritten Massachusetts law essays, 1 Multistate Practice Test, 3 Guayaki Organic Energy Shots, 1 5-hour Energy Shot, 4 days of living off almond-butter-pita sandwiches, and a trip to the extremely shady town of Schenectady, New York, all within three days totaling approximately 21 hours of testing later, I am officially finished with all that stuff that you get to do only after you graduate from law school. No more goddamn bubbles to fill out, no more depressing realizations mid-question that I was well on my way to what can only be described as “active failing,” no more being confined to a chair for at least 14 hours a day, day after day. The nightmares still, pathetically, pop up, but there’s the hope that they’ll eventually go away.

And what did I learn? That I’m capable of not riding my bike for over 2 weeks, that the Massachusetts bar probably wouldn’t have been so bad had I had more than 3 hours to study for it, that 5-hour Energy tastes like Robitussin mixed with Sweet N Low, and that post-bar, I am far from capable of interacting in any socially acceptable manner with anyone, much less go on a bike ride. That law school will never prepare you for this ordeal, and that at the end of it, you’ll end up feeling like shit, both physically and psychologically.
Oh, yeah, and as Ben was kind enough to inform me via Twitter, I even learned that I had missed the entire Tour. WHO KNEW?

And now there are bikes and friends and alcoholic beverages but I’m mostly just exhausted. I feel soft and gross and unhealthy. Riding a bike seems slightly foreign and the quick trip down to South Station from my apartment left my IT band aching again. It’s back to square 1, because, let’s face it, the stuff I’d been frantically cramming into my brain all summer had nothing to do with bicycles. Nor did it have anything to do with stringing words together to make somewhat coherent sentences and then publishing said sentences on the Internet. In short, my brain pretty much has that vacantly drained post-coital feeling if you took out all the good buzzy feelings and replaced it with someone repeatedly punching you in the balls [or, face, if you lack a scrotum].
So, yeah, I didn’t do much this past weekend. I packed my bags, got on my bike, hoped I wouldn’t kill myself on the way downtown, hopped a bus, and was at the Rapha Cycle Club in record time. It was Step1 in my efforts at resocialization, and though Ben questioned my choice of locale, it was comforting to know that everything was still basically the same. Nothing had drastically changed; the regulars were in attendance and the pastries and coffee were equally delicious. Conversations may have referenced the Tour, but they didn’t start with “Hal and Wanda got married in 1995. In 1998, they got divorced and Hal left a will that is going to fuck with your head for the next half hour.” And consistency [or lack of change], when it makes bar exams seem like bad dreams, is a very good thing.

So despite my own hopes of regaining my fitness or doing 5000 miles on my bike this week, I’m not quite sure either of those things are going to happen. But, you know, like passing the bar, there’s still a hope that they might.
And hey, at least I didn’t miss Shark Week.

rapha cycle club redux

Three more weeks and that feeling that I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell when it comes to passing the bar is becoming more and more of an actual reality. And with this heat, “walking through Hell” isn’t so much of a simile anymore.
“Don’t lose your marbles,” Mike joked a few weeks back when I called him, sobbing and mostly hysterical.
“Marbles? I’ve only got one left,” I miserably told him.
I’ve been clutching onto that one last one; alternatively gripping onto it and misplacing it. And with the oppressive heat, it’s starting to feel less like a marble and more like the proverbial snowball, melting and dripping through my fingers. On a sauna-like, cramped bus headed back to Boston yesterday, I mentally cupped that snowball in my hands and wished it was back somewhere cooler and infinitely more comforting, where I could glue back the pieces of my sanity and iron out the wrinkles etching themselves between my brows.
Somewhere like the Rapha Cycle Club.

I know the last time I posted, it was about the same pop-up shop, and that double-dipping isn’t socially acceptable, even on the Internet [although, let’s face it, we all do it when no one’s looking]. But this time it was done and officially open on Saturday as the first stage of the Tour took off. And given that this past weekend was the last time I was permitted to laugh or otherwise crack a smile until after the bar, I took full advantage and headed down to NYC, Rapha, and a boyfriend.
And you know what? It was worth it. It really was. To be honest, I had my initial doubts and slight trepidations. Boyfriend managing the store aside, I’ve gotten shit for the Rapha-related things I’ve done; the smirks and comments on whether I really paid $70 for a silk scarf with cogs on it, the accusation that just liking expensive stuff meant that I didn't like to ride so much as look like I did, or that Rapha Scarf Friday prevented people from actually taking me seriously. The affiliation with Rapha suddenly became a lot more frustrating than I had ever expected, and came with baggage that, when I started this whole cycling thing, I never knew existed. Confused and embarrassed, in a way I blamed Rapha for leading me into this mess in the first place.

But haters are everywhere, and walking into the completed space, the Rapha Cycle Club is a lot more inviting than I expected, and completely devoid of the pretentiousness that people love to assume and hate in Rapha. There’s a long 30ft long wooden table flanked by jerseys and huge flat screen TVs on one side and a coffee bar run by Third Rail Coffee [serving Stumptown coffee in customized Rapha espresso cups and Blue Sky pasteries] on the other. Men’s jerseys and the women’s line flank the giant broom wagon sitting in the back of the space which doubles as a fitting room, but is also just fun to climb inside. A rotating gallery space is off to the left of the broom wagon and the limited edition t-shirts hang right next to the women’s jerseys and shorts.

Books, magazines, and newspapers are free to peruse and wi-fi means that laptops are in attendance. The floor to ceiling front windows provide ample opportunity to soak up your RDA of Vitamin D as well. A chalkboard up front has the Tour schedule as well as a race report written up by Mike of the previous stage [well worth the read and what will become, I’m sure, my primary source of info for what’s going on in this year’s Tour], and appropriately printed up on yellow paper. And because this is a shop for cyclists, there’s some awesome bike parking as well.
Surrounded by cool gear, and unable to resist, despite knowing full well I couldn't possibly afford it, I tried on the red Stowaway jacket in a size 10...and found that I somehow fit into a size 8 [the XXS]...!!! Other than fueling my vanity and making my weekend, it was awesome to know that even the smallest size allowed for slightly bigger hips. The jacket didn't clutch and cling to my hips like others do, silently implying that my butt is a lot bigger than it should be given my waist size. Admiring how it looked in the mirror, I mentally thanked Rapha for not judging.

But this is Rapha, a company from which we expect all the great little, meticulous details that other companies get points for. The space was going to look great; I knew that without even seeing the floor plan. I was hoping, though, perhaps selfishly given my own experience, that the Cycle Club wouldn’t be another reason why I should be that much more self-conscious about having done the things I have with a few scarves and a neck warmer [it was all G-rated, I swear]. And simply put, it was. For the first time since I started making friends who thrive on competition, I felt excited about being into bicycles, even if I still can’t do jack shit on one. I didn’t feel so out of place as I thought I would, and I even went back to hang out for longer than I really should have, every day I was in NYC.

I left there yesterday morning with a bidon, a bonk bag, one of the white limited edition scarves [thanks, Slate!], and even some new friends, sad to leave but the terror of the bar dragging my feet back to Boston.
“I’ll be back in August,” I promised.
“August?! Come back next week!” Cassidy said.
“I wish I could,” I said. And I really, really meant it.
[More pictures here...and make sure to follow them on twitter!]

leaving cuddles

I'm off to no-TV-land-which-means-no-ridiculous-cheering-on-of-professional-cyclists-in-the-Giro-and-ToC with a dress in my suitcase [finally!] and an email to read.

I'll be back on Monday in full force. In the meantime, cheer on Cuddles for me? I got a soft spot for my fellow Aussies.

brooklyn bike jumble-ing

I was born in the year of the pig [or, as I like to call it, the year of the boar]. I don’t say this to justify my adoration of food, but because, by sheer luck [or misfortune], the year in which I was born blessed me with a streak of stubbornness and, worse, a one-track mind. And when I say “one-track mind,” I mean the kind where, if I lose one train of thought, it’s probably not coming back. Ever.
Sometimes I like to think that I’m getting better at pretending to be as ADD as everyone else around me. But unlike the rest of the world, when my brain goes racing off on a tangent, I'm pretty much never coming back to my original train of thought. I can apparently only focus on one thing at a time.
“Hey, so, I wanted to ask,” I started, yesterday, dutifully filling in for Mike by parking my butt on the NYC Velo couch. I trailed off.

“.....Ohhhh, who’s Serotta??? So niiiice. Hey, whose is this? Man. Wow.”
“So what were you trying to ask?”
“Huh?”
“You were trying to ask something. Before you got distracted,” Andy informed me.
Even now I can’t remember what in the world I was trying to ask. I think I did remember, though, after about 3 solid minutes of deep thought. But back to the Serotta - a black one. It was Andy’s, and when I pointed out the flat pedals, he pointed to his waterproof shoes [it was pouring out] and mentioned that he had gotten the pedals at the Brooklyn Bike Jumble. I hadn’t realized he had even purchased anything.

Given that I was there, it was probably my one-track mind at work again. After Cafe Grumpy, the three of us headed to the Brooklyn Bike Jumble to check out bikes, parts, and clothes in our Lycra and cleats. There were vintage frames, a BMX bike with an amazing “Predator” decal on it, and a good showing of bike friends. We made it about ¼ of the way around the outside of the jumble before bumping into Abe and Tyler of Outlier, both of whom I haven’t seen since...oh...INTERBIKE LAST YEAR.

We caught up a little, and I got to see their new merino T shirts in person. They’re making polo shirts out of the same soft fabric now, and when I saw a guy try it on, I started running down the list of upcoming holidays to find an excuse to grab one for Mike. No holiday is necessary to stop by their new space on Saturdays to try on their women’s pants, though. I promised I would [and oh, I will].
Mike and I picked our way through the booths and tables with our bikes, squeezing past various frames and laid out bike parts. I got to meet John Prolly, got some hugz from Ethan Laekhouse [hands down one of the most hilarious people to sit on a bicycle], and met Harry, who recently organized the Coney Island Velodrome exhibit at the Old Stone House [is that enough name-dropping for you?]. All of whom were super down-to-earth and reminded my stubborn brain that I should be doing that whole socializing thing a lot more.

Our stomachs growling and my phone blowing up [for once] with my sister on the other end, we left soon after for lunch at Tom’s Restaurant. An hour or so after nomming on baked goods, we were stuffing our faces full of eggs and toast and good ol’ diner coffee.
Because even with easily distracted one-track mind, I always seem to remember the importance of coffee.