collaring perfection

It's only human nature to be sort of resentful of people that make everything look effortless. They accomplish things ordinary mortals somehow can't; they look good the second they wake up, they glow with the kind of charisma that's reserved for the truly cool, and everyone thinks that everything they do is either awesome or adorable or both.
They're so goddamn perfect, they make you puke a little in your mouth every time you think of them.
So forgive me if I sighed a little in exasperation when a familiar Fedex package greeted my return home a few days ago. I may have even rolled my eyes a bit. But between you and me, that's mostly because handling anything Rapha makes me feel [even now] sort of...frumpy.

Because Rapha is polished. Almost blindingly so. And what's worse is that polished perfection actually delivers.
Which explains even Competitive Cyclist's inability to fully criticize Rapha. Even with the excessively stylish way in which Rapha riders apparently change a flat, and the prevalence of the word "gentleman" in their events [but then again, the Rapha Ladies' Club would sound either like a geriatric brothel or a really skanky male strip club], somehow they're not completely out of touch with reality. That's not to say they're perfect - until they get a women's line in production, even I won't give them that - but given their fairly large range of products, there's almost a surprising amount of thought instilled in each piece.

But lack of a women's line isn't the reason for my frumpy feelings. It's like being lined up next to a supermodel; she can be the nicest thing in the world but she's still a goddamn supermodel. It's not her fault that her biological luck makes me feel depressingly self-conscious, but it still does. So when I opened my presents from Portland to find a Winter Collar and a sick bottle opener from Rapha's "Stars and Watercarriers" event, my first thought was:
"My giant Asian head is not going to fit through this [Winter Collar, not the long chain the bottle opener came with]."

It actually did, though. Quite easily, in fact. And Rapha apparently being scarily clairvoyant, yesterday morning was cold and rainy; the kind of weather where cotton bandannas or silk scarves simply do not cut it. Puddled around my neck, peeking out from the top of my jacket, the Winter Collar's silky wool is about 5 million times better than a heavy, slightly suffocating wool scarf and about 10 million times better than zipping my fleece jacket all the way up and then having the zipper jab that part where my head connects to my throat and consequently feeling like I'm a few sensations away from choking.
But the inadvertent discovery of the Winter Collar's best feature was all courtesy of the annoying rain pelting my face. Out of habit, I pulled up whatever was around my neck to cover the lower half of my face, and if it wasn't for the morning traffic, I would have stopped to gape and caress.

Because unlike the fleece balaclava that I formerly could not live without, the elastic of the Winter Collar doesn't crush my nose - an extremely important fact when you spent your childhood with a clothespin on it to make it as pointy as possible. That might have been enough to win me over completely, but there's more. The almost-sheer weight of the wool means that breathing though the fabric doesn't result in the lower half of your face becoming a suffocating sauna. And unlike that now-detestable balaclava, even pulled over half my face, the collar keeps neck and collarbone protected from the elements.

I almost didn't want to take it off when I got to school, despite the self-consciousness involved in wearing Rapha. But checking Twitter, I came across the latest tweet from shitmydadsays:
"That woman was sexy...Out of your league? Son. Let women figure out why they won't screw you, don't do it for them."
If Rapha wants to be involved with my neck, maybe I really shouldn't question it...

rock star lube

I am obsessed with trashy TV shows like "Intervention" [and yes, "Obsessed"].
I'm not ashamed to say that I'll watch episodes of "Intervention" on Hulu while I'm on my rollers, morbid fascination allowing me to momentarily forget how much my legs are hurting. Crack addicts, meth heads, anorexics, cutters...It's addictive. I can't stop.
One episode in particular has stuck out; maybe because a bicycle was involved. A loving mother of two who was now homeless, hooked on meth, and forbidden to see her children, she did lines off of the porcelain top of a toilet in her underwear. With close-cropped black hair, darkly-lined eyes, and a stick-thin figure, even on her bicycle, she looked like a total rock star.

I am slightly ashamed to say that I was disappointed and shocked when she cleaned up and transformed herself into a normal, slightly frumpy woman in her late 30s. But I think of her whenever I lube up my chain.
Because I've been using Rock 'n' Roll lube, and that stuff is slick.

After about two months of forgetting to buy lube [despite the inordinate amount of time I spend in bike shops], a friend finally brought me a bottle of this stuff because it was apparently flying off the shelves at NYC Velo. I had my doubts. It looked exactly like the dry stuff I was using earlier, which a seasoned mechanic told me was probably made by Satan. Also, it's lube. Other than the whole wet or dry thing, aren't they all just the same?
Apparently not. A single application later, my chain was as smooth as Mick Jagger. A length of metal links that had once groaned and squeaked with accumulated dirt was now as silent as rock shows are loud. Pedalstrokes were like cutting through warm butter - or, to keep the rock star analogy going, like doing lines of top, high-grade cocaine.

"I looooove riding my bicycle," that meth head had said with the delirium produced by non-medical use of hypodermic needles and snorted lines. I remember being slightly appalled as I watched her pedaling her cruiser along, and thinking that this woman was clearly living in some other reality.
But I started thinking, maybe that declaration wasn't so much a product of illegal substances, and just the result of proper application of Rock 'n' Roll lube. Or, at least I sort of hope so. Because otherwise, with the way this lube has me loving my bike rides, people are going to start thinking I'm a meth head, too.

ten points

Even as a Cancer, my maternal instincts are limited to the point of being nonexistent. Sure, I'm about to reach that age where my biological clock starts going "ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!!!!!!1111" and I'll want to bone everything that moves, but the fact remains: children simply terrify me.
Add to that the fact that I am incredibly Dude, and it's a little alarming when male friends think that I'd actually make a good mother. Really? Me? Kids? Huh? ...No.
Because we're talking about a girl who just managed to lube her chain for the first time in about 4 weeks [4 weeks, people] a few days ago. A stunningly simple task, it was made infinitely more complicated by my sheer laziness. It involved things like turning over both my bikes, getting out some rags, shaking up the [dry] lube [because I kept forgetting to buy the wet stuff], and applying it to my chain. It was exhausting just thinking about it [seriously, how would I be able to take care of children?].

But mustering up the energy to finally bite the bullet, I carefully flipped over both bikes in my small apartment. And in doing so, I moved aside a book I had just finished the night before: "Ten Points," by [Bicycling Magazine editor] Bill Strickland.

You have to read it. A memoir of Strickland's promise to his daughter that he would score ten points in one season [despite his status as a "decidedly average bicyclist"], it's more than just a book about bicycles. Between the furious pedaling, Strickland - with the kind of stark, naked honesty that doesn't tuck away the blemishes and disappointments of reality - interweaves his inner fight with a demon born of child abuse and his struggles with parenting. A slim book of heartcrushing proportions, it had me pulling back tears after the first chapter [and for what it's worth, it wasn't that hormonal time of month].
It's the kind of book you immediately want to talk about. The kind that tends to turn me into a walking spoiler alert for the book, despite the fact that I want everyone I know to read it. And I mean that; because unlike most things I fanatically advocate, no obsessive love of bicycles is really required for this one. Just a heart. And maybe some tissues.

Back in my apartment, I managed to uncover the silver metal underneath the black much coating my chain. Tires got pumped and brake pads checked. A mental note made of new bar tape and the desire for another pair of clipless pedals before climbing back on a track bike perched precariously on a pair of rollers. When I get around to it, I might not be such a bad bike mom.
Which, along with "Ten Points," gives me a little hope. For, you know, when children stop terrifying me.
[And yup, it's Rapha Scarf Friday.]

drowning in embrocation

My Mom has this tendency to flip through clothes with a dismissive, almost violent hand. Hangers squeak loudly against poles as she'll cast aside suits, shirts, and pants, unable to find that perfect, impeccably tailored, designer whatever. Meanwhile I try not to completely lose it as the product of someone's hard labor is violently shoved aside.
She does the same thing to books. Pages grating against themselves as she tries to find a quote or phrase. The fragile tissues somehow withstanding her abuse but clearly bearing the battle scars of wrinkles and too much wear. It drives me absolutely insane.
Maybe that's because I love print publications [and yes, clothes]. I prefer print-outs to reading things online, newspapers to the internet, letters to emails. My favorite books, while read and re-read, manage to remain mostly unscathed, the gloss of their covers still largely intact.

So you can imagine why I almost wished I had those made-to-handle-antiques cloth gloves on when I ripped open a package left mysteriously on my front doorstep [delivered by bike, I later discovered, with a $5 bill tucked into its pages for the shipping I had paid for...thanks, James!] and found Volume 3 of Embrocation Cycling Journal. Pulling it out of its envelope with slightly sweaty hands, a surge of goosebumps swept up my back as I ever so gently flipped through its pages.
Taught the importance of font and layout by an extremely critical sister [who happens to be a graphic designer], I ran an eye over it, almost bracing myself for something I wouldn't like. Something that wouldn't make sense. Something that would inevitably disappoint. Instead, my eyes feasted. And not just on the layout, which, though beautiful, seems only complementary to the sheer talent behind the magazine itself. Because that's what sets Embrocation Cycling Journal apart - the realization that that intangible something that all cyclists share managed to somehow collect the best of its members and spilled their gifts out onto its pages.

Due to the fact that I ride a single-speed 'cross bike, it was only too fitting that my first introduction to Embrocation Cycling Journal came in the form of an issue focused on cyclocross. Between the smorgasbord of stunning pictures, including photos by the incredibly talented Michael R. of Velodramatic, were stories and interviews, cyclists relating their love for racing, fabricating, and training. The pages kept turning as the laptop [and work] got pushed away. Even after owning it for several weeks, it still has that effect.
Which is dangerous. Especially because I now happen to be in possession of Volume 2 as well. Focused more on road racing, there's that same, strong talent behind every page. Just enough to give a sense of the potential Embrocation can grow to, but not quite done with puberty. And like a really good date with the high-school-nerd-turned-successfully-wealthy-hottie, it doesn't disappoint, but definitely leaves you wanting more.

That doesn't mean I won't be turning back to these issues once Volume 4 comes out. When sad, lonely, and covered in grease and brake dust, I turned to Joshua Gunn's "Bird Watch," careful not to blemish the pages with tears and snot [Volume 3]. When lacking artistic inspiration or dreaming of tattoos, Peter Rubijono's drawings [Volumes 2 and 3]. When fantasizing about custom-built road bikes, "N.A.H.B.S." [Volume 2].

It's all there - feelings of victory, disappointment, desire, excitement, fuzzy contentment...all tied together by a shared love of bicycles. The effect? Intellectual and emotional embrocation [the cold weather kind]...without the stickiness.
[Buy yourself a copy here.]