le tour a paris

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.

An hour later, we were in Paris. My assistant had timely sent a few garçons, although their fanning did nothing to alleviate the heat. I was only too glad to arrive at the VIP tent, where the white wine was chilled, the beer cold, and the fois gras finger sandwiches and tiny madelaines in abundance.

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!]

race report: shuzenji, racing solo, and making mistakes

My riding this year has been a bit like a cycling cha-cha: two steps [pedalstrokes?] forward, one step back. Rinse and repeat. Things will be going perfectly, until I hit some hormonal or non-cycling life wall, and then I'll spend a week recovering. You could say it's almost like East German training where you're purposely overtrained, but mine has been without the supercompensation benefits.
Still, I had registered for a JCRC race this past weekend. Despite the fact that I didn't feel super strong or ready, it seemed like it'll be good practice. Never mind that I had quit my team a few weeks back and couldn't even hitch a ride to the race. I figured that I'll figure it out, because that's what I do.

Saturday afternoon, instead of some hardcore napping so I could wake up at 3am to get a ride down to Izu prefecture, I was experiencing the muscle-draining pain of traveling to a race solo. This meant hauling my disassembled bike, plus about 10kg of gear and clothes up and down flights of stairs and across two of the largest train stations in Tokyo. Three hours later, my sore shoulders crawled into a cab that drove me up to the Nihon Cycle Sports Center and where I'll crash for the night, the Cytel [as in, the Cycle Hotel. Get it?].

6,900 yen had purchased me a small room with a sink [communal bathrooms in the hallway and communal bath/showers on the third floor], plus two meals. Dinner in the dining room on the second floor was a truckload of food, with a Kazhak junior cycling team plus Singaporean Wai Mun and two Hong Kong track cyclists taking part in the UCI Continental Cycling Center training camp. Thankfully they weren't racing the next day, but the four middle-aged guys I shared a table with, were.

They came to breakfast the next morning full kitted-out [I was still in yoga pants]. I ate breakfast with a lump in my throat, told myself it was a good sign that salmon was on the menu, and got dressed.

Though the predicted rain had held off, wind was gusting around the course. Not a good sign for a non-climber in a climber's race. The women's [open] field was assigned a scant 10km [2 laps around a 5km circuit], with a total of 285m of climbing. Those sound like pussy numbers, but I never met anything over 3% that I didn't at least dislike.
Climbing to me has always been like the slightly creepy coworker who's always trying to hang out outside of work. "Look, I don't mind working with you because I have to," I always want to say when the grade starts to pitch up, "but that doesn't mean I'd actually choose to spend time with you." That's probably the point, and my tolerance has gotten better, but not quite race better. I was optimistic, though, because I did better than I expected at the same race last year.

Until, of course, I saw the field. Only two women [myself included] were racing unaffiliated [and coincidentally, on the only two steel bikes]. A pair of Zipp 404s and 303s would race for 1st place; that was almost painfully obvious before the gun even went off. My heart was rattling in nervousness and a touch of dread. In a field of ten, all save one other woman on carbon, all with Dura-Ace, I suddenly felt very alone. ["Did you at least have the best bike?" Josh would later ask, and price-wise, even with the used pair of Dura-Ace C24s I bought off Tobias a week before, it was a resounding "no."]
You know how last year I didn't make too many mistakes? Well, karma continues to be a bitch, because this year when the gun went off, I made every single mistake in the book. I fumbled [a lot] clipping in, managed to stay with the group and out of the wind on the first climb but got dropped like Wiggo on the descent. I was taking the S curves and hairpins so fast it felt like I was on a track, getting pressed into the corners, turning right, then left, then right again. They were in sight, but I couldn't bridge the gap, and on the second lap, I dropped my chain like a proper noob.

I came in a miraculous 8th [out of 10]. After changing and packing up my bike, I killed time waiting for my cab ride talking to a friend online, trying to laugh off my disappointment. "Top ten!" he said, adding, "I got a top ten at a pro race once, so we're like the same!" I laughed, and shook my head, because he's the strongest cyclist I know and he had won that race, too. We joked around and shot the shit for a little longer and between the typed out words there was a pulse of relief, the banishment of my silly fear that my friends would somehow like me less because I wasn't anywhere close to winning.
Dehydrated, exhausted, and sore, I spent the rest of my Sunday sleeping, watching TV, and mulling over lessons learned. Maybe next time, I've been telling myself, assuming I can afford it [the trip, including the race fee, cost me a touch over 30,000 yen]. For right now, though, I figure there's nothing wrong with little stumbling when you're learning the [cycling] cha-cha.

giro roundup

[My past three weeks in a nutshell...]
Hours ridden: 31.5

Blog posts written: 9 Favorite stage: Stage 7, obvs

Number of times the Esta The commercial girl actually looked like she took a huge bite out of the introduced “street food”: 0 Stages I almost vomited in anxiety: 2 [Stages 7 and 20]

Number of stages it took for me to remember that Wiggins was once in the Giro: 6 Quote that will be missed the most: “Grazie, Andrea”

Favorite non-cycling part of the Giro: the team cars re-enacting scenes from the Fast and Furious: 6 trailer.

Number of Lotto-Belisol asses I want to give a congratulatory smack to: all of ‘em [you thought I was only going to say one, didn’t you?]

Shoes of the Giro that I’d knife fight The Rock for: Hansen’s Hanseenos, Sanchez’s gold Sidis, and Pozzato’s hot pink Sidis, in that order.

Thanks for all the suffering! One down, two more Grand Tours to go!