Headed to Narita airport yesterday to do brunch, lots of coffee and a 8-hour-ish layover hang out sesh with one of my favorites.
Adam even posed for a message to Josh:
And, as if that wasn't cool enough, he gave me a super exclusive 2014 team issue Lotto-Belisol cap. These are fucking amazing.
Thanks so much Adam, and see you soon!
I’ve been to the Glass Slipper once. We went because of the Yelp reviews.
I wasn’t as drunk as I could have been, and as the only clothed woman in the establishment, felt the side glances from the other patrons somewhat acutely. “No place for a woman,” a man kept growling [into his $9 beer]. But it was a friend’s birthday, and we were intrigued by the promise of girls with knife wound and bullet hole scars. I asked to use the bathroom and was sent upstairs, where the dressing rooms were. “Don’t come down the stairs, honey,” the woman told me, “you’ll end up on that stage if you do.”
I remembered to take the elevator down, but can’t recall too much of what happened after my staring contest with the toilet used by the strippers there [“well, it’s clean,” I thought, “but do I really want to sit on that?”]. I know I crashed on my friend’s couch for a few hours afterwards and rode my singlespeed, cyclocross Bianchi home, covered in that thin layer of grease and sweat that every almost-all-nighter seems to require. The back of my eyeballs felt sore with lack of sleep, the veil of a headache was edging into the corners of my brain. And back then, I had no idea what cyclocross was.
The echoes of that night at the Glass Slipper still linger. Not so much when I talk to the guys who were there, or share stories from Boston, but most sharply on colder days in the fall, when I’m watching guys in skinsuits – both familiar and strange – getting dirty and sweaty. I’ve never set rubber to mud, and to paraphrase the guy at the Glass Slipper, CX is “no place for [a roadie who has difficulty turning right].” But like the inappropriate and obnoxiously drunk plus one at any given wedding, I yell and cheer, despite the peculiarity of my attendance. Because when your friends are into stuff that you might not know anything about, to the point where you’re forced to line up your visits to the U.S. with big CX races, there’s nothing to do but to embrace it. To open up your arms, front like you know anything about disc brakes, and hope that no one notices that you’ve never, ever ridden a CX course.
A happy affiliation with Tim Johnson and Chandler, however, mean that I’ve escaped detection thus far, and to continue my covert operations in the CX world, I immediately headed towards the bright green Cannondale truck and tent on my first day at the Providence Cyclocross Festival this past Saturday. Once again, it seemed to work; somewhere between the inappropriate jokes and the, well, even more inappropriate jokes, I lost the self-consciousness that is triggered by the sight of tire tracks in slippery mud. I’d made it to Rhode Island just in time for the Elite race, and after dispensing the necessary hugs and hellos, comfortably slipped back into the role of the shameless, screaming spectator.
Despite the fact that [or, perhaps, because ]almost every cyclist I know on the east coast is somehow involved in ‘cross – as team mechanics, racers, or otherwise – showing up to big CX races has always implied a bit of voyeurism. Because road has always been my chosen sexual orientation; skinny, slick rubber on unwrinkled asphalt is what primarily gets me off. That doesn’t rule out going gay for ‘cross – and the idea’s been more than tempting – but given my general clumsiness and dearth of bike funds, it seems unlikely.
Clearly, that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it. Stumbling around a taped off course, trying to find the best spots to heckle and state the obvious [“Go faster!”], can give even the road-confined spectator a vicarious race high. Because one of the greatest things about ‘cross is that it’s as fun to watch as to [presumably] do. After a summer of vacationing in delicately cultured European locales – through live feeds or otherwise – the familiarity and accessibility of ‘cross is like walking into a New England home. One that’s just slightly chillier than you’re used to, but you can smell the apple pie baking in the oven.
Admittedly, there was no apple pie involved this year at Providence, but there were beers with Tim and Chan and Todd, and some non-dairy soft serve covered in toasted coconut. There was screaming and cheering and hiding out in the Cannondale tent when it started to pour, with two guys named Sam. There were friends to cheer on in the Cat 3 race, friends that stopped by the race just to hang out, and all the things that make an annual pilgrimage to the U.S. worth every single yen.
I may never quite belong there, but every year, when the air starts to get a little sharper, I hope I’m stateside, screaming inappropriate things at guys I may or may not know, from the side of a muddy, wet, ‘cross course.
[Thanks Tim, Chan, Todd, JF, Tom, Sam, Sam, Dave N., Oscar and everyone that hung out with me last weekend. Hopefully see some of you guys in Japan!]
[Also, lots more not-so-great pictures here.]
Got some ride time in [and my shorts are creeping up again!]...
Got my hair did...
And got to watch this babe train on Sunday night!
I <3 Lotto. More soon!
You couldn't miss it unless you were trying to, but in case you did:
He does it again! PO-DI-UM!!!!!
Congrats again, Adam!
When the heat and humidity get oppressive in Tokyo, when air conditioned chauffeured cars start to get stale and the 2002 Dom Pérignon rosé gets warm a little too quickly, I often send my assistant scurrying to book a flight to more temperate climes. I’ve always preferred the villa in Monaco, although the private island in Fiji can be quite pleasant. Since taking up cycling, I’ve considered purchasing another residence in Nice, perhaps a small château in Aix-en-Provence…the 6 bedroom in Girona is starting to look a bit shabby, after all.
But that was the extent of my French musings – a few properties I would maybe discuss with my trustee – as crowds have always deterred me from the Tour de France. The press of people contributing to the heat of Paris summers, the nightmare of transporting my army of garçons to fan me from every angle [they never seem to be able to stay in one place], the châteaux that friends would insist I stay at. I’ve been known to order a case of 1988 Krug Brut at the mere mention of actually visiting Paris for the Tour.
The realization of a necessary, token trip to mark my thirtieth birthday, however, dawned. I was bored with Fiji, my parents asked me to tag along with them to Monaco, but Alex of Sram sent an email suggesting I join him in attempting to photobomb the photographers at the last stage of the 100th Tour de France. I couldn’t say no.
Thus, last Sunday morning, we convened at the Royal Suite of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée (Sram Red 22 has apparently been doing very well). A mix up with the helicopter reserved to transport Ben, Jason, Alex and I to Versailles turned into a train ride on the RER. The conversation and company proved to distract from my sweating through my custom Miu Miu dress, and the experience was quaintly quotidian. All that was missing was that bottle of Krug.
A flick of a yellow band around a wrist got us through to the start, where we strolled to the team buses. Saxo first, then OPQS, Cannondale, and Lotto for me. No amount of rose water or Marc Jacobs perfume could have kept me smelling luscious at this point, but Adam Hansen, ever a gentleman, didn’t mention my dusty appearance, offered some Dom Pérignon, and held my Hermes Kelly bag while I scaled a barrier. We caught up, in real life – he really is a sweetheart – before parting ways with promises to race our Ferraris, as soon as we settle on a good wager. [If he bets a pair of his Hanseeno shoes, though, I’ll have to get my F12 back from Tim Johnson…a good excuse to fly stateside for ‘cross, maybe?]
As the pros wheeled to the start, the Sram gentlemen and I collected near the team buses. How to get back without the helicopter?, we asked each other. The train, while tolerable, didn’t seem to agree with our hand-tailored garments and Italian shoes. Neither does the RER supply an endless amount of champagne or wine. As I pined for my chauffeur in shining Aston Martin, OPQS came to the rescue of this damsel, offering a ride to Paris in the plush confines of the team bus. I could hear the rattle of ice around a bottle of champagne from within. We gladly accepted.
Fed and buzzed, we strolled out of the tent to the adjacent grand stand and watched the pros fly by ten times up and down the Champs. Between sightings, giant TVs aided my line of vision, sometimes obscured by a large fan or a spaced out garçon. Passionate, fast French kept me updated when I tore my eyes away to sip more wine or consider my dessert options. Life, I was realizing, in Paris, during the last stage of the Tour, is very, very good.
Though none of our chosen sprinters took the stage, we celebrated by climbing over those pesky metal fences - so efficient at keeping the crowds out but quite detrimental to our aimless wandering - onto the course, before making our way slowly back toward the team buses. We shook hands with friends and said some au revoirs, and thirsty for some more champagne, headed to a hotel bar for a few bottles of Laurent-Perrier. The night slowly slipping by, we strolled around the city, Ben ripped his pants right across the ass, and we ended the night at the only brasserie open at 4am. I slept for an hour on my Egyptian cotton sheets, the air stirred by a still-awake fanning garçon, and got up the next day to meet the talented and charming Dave Chiu for some artistic endeavors [of the spectating variety].
I have a plane to catch tomorrow, headed back for a short shopping spree to Tokyo, then maybe a jaunt to Bora Bora for the rest of the summer. The Paris Plages are charming, yes, but don’t quite hold the luxury of their French Polynesian counterparts. But I will be back to watch the Tour...perhaps next year from the balcony of a new château…
[More pictures, here.]
[*Events may be slightly exaggerated.]
[A big, big, huuuuuge thank you to Sram, OPQS, Adam [Hansen], Dave [Chiu] and everyone else who made this trip absolutely amazing. Hugs and high fives...hopefully see you guys in Tokyo soon!]
