das pro und the rookie

Since I’ve started cycling, I’ve often wished for a cultured, sophisticated friend of the European variety. I imagine this well-connected friend, preferably reasonably attractive and trilingual, would never lack in single, male friends with chiseled features and lithe bicycles. This friend would somehow always have access to villas and chateaus, dispersed across the European Continent, in which one could crash for weeks at a time, conveniently located near spectacular riding routes. There’d be a flat in London, too, should the need for a Vivienne Westwood shopping spree ever arise, but the majority of our time will be spent in Italian cafes or the French Alps. Always in our respective kits.
Unfortunately, either birds of vastly different feathers don’t like to flock together, or, the more gentle explanation to my self-confidence would suggest, that this type of fun-at-parties, almost-annoying-cultured-in-that-European-way-but-doesn’t-come-off-as-a-total-douche friend simply doesn’t exist. Never mind that Europeans probably can’t see much charm in the cultural atrophy and addictions to reality TV that your typical Americanized individual has to offer. It’s much easier for me to explain this empty hole in my friend roster to impossibility.

Conceding that this friend can only truly exist in the confines of fantasy, it’s not a stretch, then, to imagine this individual handing you the cyclocross equivalent of the Devil’s Handbook. Except that it’s a DVD called, “Das Pro und the Rookie,” featuring lots of Belgian people, Tim Johnson, and Chandler Delinks speaking French.

It’s not porn, but as a ‘cross neophyte, the documentary is like a primer on what I need to know to most effectively pretend that I know what I’m talking about when discussing this particular discipline. Which is to say, it might be pretty close.
Because who doesn’t get off on sticky, slippery bikes races in exotic and freezing Belgian cities? If I’m honest with myself, the answer to that question would be, “mostly everyone.” But because a reality that doesn’t parse perfectly with my imagination disturbs me, I choose not to interact with the ‘cross-ignorant and thrill-deprived. It’s made for a markedly happier state of mind, and friends who would totally understand why LOLing on the trainer while watching “Das Pro,” is completely acceptable, and expected, behavior.

And this documentary – made by Chan and Todd Prekaski about Chan and Tim’s respective 2010/2011 ‘cross seasons – is that good. Not just “I’m friends with Chan and Tim so I have to say it’s good,” good, because honestly, after Chan outright ruined season three of “The Wire” two hours after I first met him, I don’t feel like I owe him anything. This was confirmed on Monday when he ruined “Dexter” for me. Thus, I’m arguably in the perfect position to rip Chan a new one…and this documentary is still hilarious, well-paced, and knows how to deliver the excitement of a ‘cross race through a video lens. I was actually disappointed that there wasn’t going to be another episode next week.

That’s not to say that it’s dumbed down entertainment a la reality TV [no cat fights are involved here]; it’s intelligent and interesting, and never regresses to macho-ness or over-analysis. “Das Pro,” gives you ‘cross as it is in Europe, raced by Chan in the Master’s World Championships, and by Tim and Team Cannondale p/b Cyclocrossworld.com in the World Championships, with the additional twist of Chan’s commentary and some great video editing. As any good documentary should, it also reflects reality – the ups and downs of racing, as well as the camaraderie between the pro[s] and the rookie. It’s not a collection of clips of how these guys would like to appear, either. The sarcastic banter between Tim and Chan, how genuinely nice Jamey Driscoll is [he told me with a straight face that no, Chan was really lying about that spoiler in “The Wire,” even though he wasn’t]; these are things that are, as far as I can attest, real. I almost wish I could pull a Chan here and give away some major spoilers.

But as the future of younger souls rests on the fact that I don’t, I’m keeping my lips sealed. Because proceeds from the sale of “Das Pro und the Rookie” DVDs go towards Tim’s Mud Fund, a scholarship set up for promising junior and U23 American ‘cross racers to take some of the financial stress of racing off of their shoulders. It’s what I’d imagine my fantasy Euro friend’s philanthropic father would be into, because he would surely love ‘cross.
Clearly, I’m loathe to give up my European friend aspirations, even if they’re of the modest, super-loaded-attractive-friend-with-hot-bike-friends-and-tons-of-connections variety. The footage in “Das Pro” hasn’t exactly killed my boner for Europe, either. There’s something inspiring, though, about Americans racing their guts out in this almost peculiar cycling discipline, going head to head with Belgians who look like they were genetically engineered to portage, mount, dismount, and run a bike through mud and snow. It’s almost enough to forgive them for that whole spoiler thing.
Almost.

bar review: bonk breakers

My mother has imposed a recent rule in the house which forbids me from drinking tap water.
“Here,” she said, as she shoved a giant bottle of water towards me, “make your coffee with this from now on. And stop drinking water from the tap. There might be radiation in it.”
Since March 11th, my family has stopped buying domestic beef, everyone is currently avoiding vegetables, dairy, and rice from northeastern Japan, and half the lights in every building are turned off as Japan rushes to shut down every nuclear power plant in the country. And as someone who might still be alive in 30 years, my homecoming has forced my mother to throw more caution in the wind: buying crates of bottled water and giving me livid stares of outrage when I refused to use an umbrella to run an errand in misty showers.

This has resulted in regular thirst, and the odd feeling that I am wasting money whenever I consume bottled water. It’s a vicious cycle that has also affected when and how often I get on the bike. Like a dealer stepping on his supply, I cut my water with electrolyte sports drinks, squeezing out the value of every bottled drop. And holding out on my thirst, I like to tell myself that attaining that state of exhausted dehydration will make whatever I’m stuffing into my mouth taste that much better.
If you’ve ridden to the point of thirst on a bike before, you’ll know what I’m referring to. It’s that point at which Nuun-ed water tastes sweet, despite the fact that when you try to drink it when properly hydrated, it tastes sort of gross. Because we all lower the bar when it comes to food consumed on the bike. Tucked into a jersey pocket and exposed to 100+F heat for over three hours, even Clif bars soften and become somewhat more palatable. Ride long enough and the disturbing softness of Clif shot blocks turns into something to be grateful for - because, let’s face it: no Haribo gummi product can be chewed twice and then simply swallowed.

Which is why when Dave N. pulled out an orange package from his jersey pocket a few months ago, I was skeptical. “These are really, really good,” he said; those same words used to inaccurately describe Clif bars to me a few years ago. “They taste like real food,” Dave went on, as I politely nodded, reminding myself that even shot blocks can taste good when one is deprived of enough calories. “You can get them at REI,” he continued, as my interest waned further, my desire to walk the two extra blocks from Superb to REI quickly becoming a convenient excuse never to try these new bars.
But curiosity and the need for chamois cream got the better of me as I ended up at REI a few weeks later. By then inclined to believe Dave’s taste in most things [especially the gastronomical kind], and looking for a gluten-free alternative to Larabars, I grabbed a few Bonk Breakers on my way out: [Dave’s favorite] Peanut Butter and Jelly, and [my current favorite] the Almond Butter and Honey flavors.

Oh. My. YUM.
Made primarily of oats, rice flour, and nuts, the most welcome thing about Bonk Breakers is that they’re soft. They’re softer to bite into than your typical slate-like Clif bar, and because they’re not dried-fruit based like Larabars, Bonk Breaker residue doesn’t tend to get stuck in your teeth. All the bars are also free of gluten, dairy, and soy, and perfectly sized to fit into jersey pockets. Not to mention how the Peanut Butter and Jelly flavor actually looks like a PB&J sandwich, and is actually delicious enough to eat off the bike.

When I had a few packaging problems with one of their bars, Jason Winn, the founder of Bonk Breakers was kind enough to not only send me a few replacement bars, but also their newest Blueberry Oat flavor. More oat-y than the previous Bonk Breakers I’ve tried, it tasted like those muffins I'd been lusting after since cutting out wheat from my diet. Except with Bonk Breakers, you can tuck this one into your jersey without worrying about the crumbs and inevitable mid-ride muffin implosions.
Unfortunately, I’ve only found one bike store that keeps these bars in stock here in Tokyo. Good thing I’m headed stateside in a week for my best friend’s wedding…because a few boxes of these are definitely coming back with me.
[Now available at RSC!]

sufferfest: making life more difficult

Sometimes I think I deliberately try to make life more difficult for myself.
Like how I am currently stuck in Albany, NY, in a hotel with no room service. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know that universal rule that a hotel located in a not so urban area, no matter how many amenities it may offer, will always make you feel more helpless than it really has a right to. I simply chose not to ask a stupid question [“do you guys have room service?”] and am being punished for it as a result [I am starving]. No, it’s not like I lost my will to stand and walk around - although more than 24 hours in Albany might have that effect on some - but it’s sleeting out. Sleeting or icy raining or wintry mixing. Basically, miserable is coming out of the sky and walking on the sidewalk is like wading through a giant frappucino.
And I don’t have my bike. Not that I would ride it on roads that are starting to look like rivers of slushy diarrhea, but because - as the saying goes - when the going gets fucking icy out, the real roadies try to figure out the fastest way to make themselves puke while riding the rollers indoors.

A seasonal rite of passage where contrition for even considering participating in cross season is exhibited in the form of intervals, a bludgening market for trainer DVDs has emerged in the past few years that seems as varigated as porn. And with titles like, “Spinervals Fitness 2.0, Sweating Buckets,” and “Mindy Mylrea: Super Cycle: The Best Ride in Town,” the similarities between the porn business and the sweating on your bike business might not be so few and far between. It might be slightly awkward to watch at times [“what exactly are they....that can’t be real...am I actually supposed to want to do that?”], but how terrible could a training video be?

With that thought in mind, and a preference that is more Suicide Girls than Chasey Lain, I invested $10.99 of my hard-earned money to purchase Revolver, a video by the newest trainer video producer on the scene, Sufferfest. Available immediately for download, I was on my bike and rolling through a ride within 20 minutes of hitting “Buy Now.” And since that moment, I have been hooked. Like turning that shit on and riding until my legs shake, four days out seven, hooked. Hitting “play,” to a soundtrack that I now associate with suffering at a perceived rate of exertion of 10/10 in one minute intervals, for thirty goddamn minutes, I first follow a bunch of guys on a brisk ride, before heading vicariously to the Manchester velodrome for the Madison event, then onto the U-23 World Champs, the UCI Cyclocross World Champs, and wrap it up [my favorite part] with Tatiana Guderzo and the ladies. It’s excruciatingly hard - the first time I did it, I wanted to weep, then pass out in a puddle of my own puke - but it’s equally addictive: Revolver has become the perfect 45 minute escape from the snowy shitfest that is Boston.

This could be all because, like I said, I might enjoy making my life more difficult than it should be. Of course, it wasn’t enough for me to just schedule in a few Sufferfest sessions into my week. I had to do it on rollers, thereby forcing myself to sit through the sprints and savor the sensations of my ass falling off while I was at it. But like any cyclist - from seasoned pro to newbie amateur - will tell you, that feeling of despair and complete destruction after a hard workout can’t be beat. And when you don’t have 2+ hours, or daylight in which to ride, Sufferfest will deliver, kicking your ass good and proper so you can keep up with your crew, or at least feel like less of a lazy waste of space.
I can’t say I’m putting out 6000 watts yet, but I am working my way up to Sufferfest’s newest, Local Hero, which clocks in at 85 minutes of pain, intervals included.
God, I can’t wait.

[energy] bar review

Long before I bought my first adult-sized bicycle [yes, 44cm is adult-sized], I ate my first Luna bar. Sweet, crunchy, and formulated “especially for women” [I still haven’t really figured out what that means], it was a sign of a long year of packaged, processed food. Neck-deep in my first year of law school, trying to memorize cases that I hardly understood, with no time to take care of myself, I subsisted on Lean Cuisines, boxes of cereal, Pop Tarts, and bagels from Dunkin Donuts. I broke out, gained 10 pounds, and ended the year on a bicycle.
The following fall, teasing a friend in his first year of law school who was trapped in the library for the night, studying alongside a Clif bar, I understood his misery all too well when he complained:
“I haven’t eaten something that hasn’t come out of a package in three weeks...!”
Law school will make you paranoid [“Does that count as a tort? Am I being contributorily negligent?”], [slightly to extremely] fat, and an expert in processed food. Which is one reason why, when my stick-thin sister asked me to review energy/protein bars because “some of them taste like ass and I’d rather have someone else tell me that instead of finding out myself,” I sort of didn’t mind taking one for the team. Because between the Everlast, South Beach, Zone, Balance, Clif, Luna, Kind, and Larabars, I’ve figured out which stick-shaped forms of nutrition aren’t complete calorie-bombs, how to battle their respective wrappers on a bike, and which ones might result in the kind of gastronomic distress that no one should have to deal with when they’re 30 miles into a ride.
So whether you're in law school, studying for the bar, preparing for a ride, or just hungry, here are a few good standbys to have around...
Clif Bar Flavor tested: Chocolate Chip Peanut Crunch Calories: 260 Carbs: 42 grams Fat: 6 grams Protein: 11 grams

Oh Clif. Like the lifelong guy friend who, if a girl is actually honest with herself, she just doesn’t want to date, there are just too many little flaws that banish Clif to the “friend ladder,” despite his bro status amongst many endurance athletes. Though boasting the use of organic oats and soybeans, and natural ingredients, there’s something about Clif that’s hard to swallow [so to speak]. Though the amount of carbs in one bar [almost as much as a bagel] is pretty well suited for a long endurance ride, and though the package is definitely bike-friendly in that it can be easily torn open with teeth and one hand [and what girl doesn’t like that?], Clif bars are really...hard [yes, that’s what she said]. I’ve run into Clif’s arms in rages of PMS-fueled carb-frenzies...and was forced to concentrate on chewing while breathing at the same time. And while that might be a good thing when your appetite is acting like a raging beast, it’s not so good when you’re trying to reduce something into a swallow-able consistency and pedal at the same time. Cutting up the bar into smaller, bite-sized pieces pre-ride helps, but you can’t really do much about the long-lasting chewiness.
If you’re into that, to each girl her own. But be forewarned: with soy protein isolate and soy flour listed as ingredients, to those with more delicate stomachs [read: me], Clif can be the cause of some gastrointestinal distress. As in, it makes me ridiculously gassy. So in the interest of saving you the sensation that your gas is the only thing propelling you forward because your gas-filled stomach has you curling up in pain when you pedal hard, if you might be sensitive to soy or soy flour, you might want to try eating one of these before you go out and munch on one mid-ride.
Luna Bar Flavor tested: Caramel Nut Brownie Calories: 180 Carbs: 27 grams Fat: 6 grams Protein: 8 grams

Luna Bar - Clif’s “women’s bar” - is like Clif’s younger sister who has a corporate job where she works at least 12 hours a day, cooks wholesome meals, goes to yoga once a week, and still finds time to spend quality time with her girlfriends. Supplemented with 24 vitamins and minerals, made with 70% organic ingredients, Luna Bar does it all, and is also formulated with calcium, folic acid, iron, and Vitamin D to “help women get more of the nutrients often lacking in their meal plans while being 100% natural and as organic as possible.” It’s a bar that’s perfectly shaped into visually appealing rectangles and just sweet enough to make the girls like her without coming off as fake.
Unlike her brother Clif, Luna is easier to break apart and savor, too. And with only 180 calories a pop, she’s a lot more versatile, making appearances as both bike energy food and as a quick afternoon snack. With the women-centric marketing and emphasis on all-natural ingredients, Luna’s girlfriends will always feel good about making a “healthier” choice, and one that is apparently tailor-made just for them.
With Luna’s support of women and women’s cycling, I want to like her, too. I want to believe in her, that she’s as healthy and wholesome as she claims. That she’s not really digging into pizza after yoga or living off bad Chinese take-out. But one bite, and the wholesome image crumbles a bit. Halfway into the bar, I stop lying to myself; Luna doesn’t taste any better than bars that aren’t “all-natural.” There’s a heavily processed, almost metallic taste to it, which makes the act of eating one only slightly more pleasant than chewing on a multi-vitamin [and I’m not talking about the kid’s chewables]. By the end, I’m questioning if the “chocolate” base was actually real chocolate or simply “chocolate-flavored.” And then there’s that whole soy flour and soy protein isolate gas problem that she shares with her brother Clif. I guess siblings are never that different, huh?
For those still willing to give Luna a chance, the bar does tend to shower crumbs. If you’re eating half and sticking the rest in a jersey pocket, you might want to shake out said jersey pocket post-ride.
Larabar Flavor tested: Apple Pie Calories: 190 Carbs: 24 grams Fat: 10 grams Protein: 4 grams

In contrast to Clif and Luna, Larabar is the ethical, trendy vegan friend you have that you sort of wish wasn't bi so you can have him all to yourself. Often confused with Luna, Larabars are as man-friendly as they come, and for those who refuse to consume anything that comes out of a package, Larabar's list of ingredients you can count on one hand and recognize will make them the exception to your rule.
Actually, like anything that is delicious, wholesome, and good-looking, Larabar might become your new, go-to, add-to-speed-dial crush. Larabar's honesty about what he's made of: dried fruit, nuts, and spices like cinnamon, and his complete lack of added sugar, gluten, or preservatives makes him both unique and addictive. He's a regular in the Pedal-Strike Household, sneaks into my bags as quick snacks, and is likely to be found in my jersey pocket. Sure I sometimes end up picking out dried apple and tiny bits of almonds out of my molars with my finger but let's be honest: I've done far more disgusting things. And Larabar - bless him - doesn't judge.
Kind Bar Flavor tested: Walnut and Date Calories: 170 Carbs: 22 grams Fat: 9 grams Protein: 3 grams

And finally, Kind bar. He's a gluten-free veg-head, too, though not vegan because he still likes his honey. A mix of nuts, dried fruit, and puffed rice, just like Sram's shifting, Kind bar has taken the best of both energy bar worlds, combining natural ingredients with some moderately processed ones to produce something pretty frickin' delicious. Like Larabar, Kind bar is comfortable enough with himself to be upfront about what's under that wrapper: the transparent packaging lets you see that you're buying something you can recognize as hunks of buttery-tasting walnuts mixed with dates, honey, and raisins. To add to his appeal, Kind bar even actively supports doing kind acts. So if you're in the market for a guy that doesn't just front about what he's about, Kind bar is your man.
Kind bar's only downside is that the clever, attractive packaging plastic is thick and sturdy, making on the bike consumption a bit more difficult. The thinness of the individual bars also means that cutting them up pre-ride isn't so much of an option. But the chewy yet kinda crispy texture can't be beat, and if you're looking for a wider range of bars - like those drizzled with chocolate or yogurt or supplemented with calcium - yet still want to keep it as natural as possible, Kind delivers, without any chemical aftertaste.
I know I mentioned I'm an expert in the field of energy bar eating, so it would be irresponsible of me to say that this is any kind of exhaustive list. These four - whatever your goal - should cover the bases. But if you have a favorite that you're pretty sure I definitely have to try, let me know. I'm always up for eating more things that come in small packages.

tour des livres

The thing I miss most about taking public transport - other than the oversized handbags digging into my side or being pushed next to guys who have B.O. strong enough to kill a horse - is that there is really no safe way to read on a bicycle. I’ve thought about audio books but have noticed on the rollers that, if I’m trying to intently listen to something while on the bike, my pedaling slows and I am definitely not paying attention to the things that are going on outside the space between my ears. This means that while I’ve gotten better at maneuvering around traffic since starting cycling, my literary prowess has as much spunk as an anemic anorexic.
Enter the end of academia and the re-introduction [commencing last summer with Strickland’s Ten Points] of books into my life. You know, the fun kind that aren’t just filled with cases and case notes. Though the “reading for fun” thing tapered off when school started last fall, a month or so ago, I felt the textured pages of a book. And I was hooked again.

At first it was magazines, then books and books and more books. Picking up a habit of Mike’s, I started to stockpile books. I’ll read this one after I read that one, I thought, justifying the purchase of two books because they were used and only $8.50 a piece and hardcover, even. They took up a small corner of Mike’s apartment, waiting for me to rifle through their pages. Then, passing a bookstore the next day, I picked up a paperback because, well, hardcovers are a bit bulky to carry back and forth on a bus. I’d need something to read between Boston and New York.
All of which has conspired to persuade me that taking the T in to work might not be so bad. The precious reading time might outweigh the mere 4 miles it takes to bike to Park Street, even if that means I have to leave my apartment earlier to get jostled around in an unstable, overcrowded, absurdly slow trolley car. I was already leaning this way when I received the new Kindle as a gift. Addicted to reading a screen that actually looks like a printed page, I read more than wrote, and spent precious time I should be on the rollers, curling up with my brain’s new love.

But then within that stockpile of physical books that I had amassed earlier, I picked up one that I had started weeks ago before being interrupted by the slim sexiness that is my Kindle. And that book - Bill Strickland’s Tour de Lance - had me consciously choosing to take the T, and stuffing that large hardcover into my bag, squished between my lunch, water bottle, and change of clothes.
For those that watched the 2009 TDF, the book may not be on their short list. Having missed most of it, and only catching a stage or two here and there, the book was an awesome stage by stage of the first TDF I attempted to follow. Being surrounded by cycling enthusiasts who just know a shit ton more than I do about pro cycling [see here], it was a little intimidating trying to understand what the hell was going on last summer. My brain caught little glimpses, but never the entire picture. I still don’t really get what’s going on, and rely heavily on friends to explain who is likely to win a stage, who might win the yellow [or pink or red] jersey, and what lies in store for each stage. I ask questions until it seems to annoy, then I stop and bide my time until I feel I can ask more.
Strickland’s book was like taking a few very well informed friends and tying them to a chair and extracting information from them at gunpoint about the 2009 TDF. Actually it’s better because, though its full title is Tour De Lance: The Extraordinary Story of Lance Armstrong’s Fight to Reclaim the Tour de France, Strickland gives a glimpse into not only Armstrong’s comeback, but into the characters that make the TDF so interesting. There are the charming Schlecks, the super domestiques that carry the yellow jersey to victory, and even in the shadow of the whole “it might be doping plastic residue in his blood” thing, the shyly adorable [at least to me] Alberto Contador. And it’s these personalities that bring the 2009 TDF to life.
Armstrong’s commitment to the Livestrong cancer foundation and his stated motivation for returning to pro cycling aside [can you really argue against cancer? Can you? Really???], it seems a gross understatement to say that he is a polarizing figure. Between honest insights into Armstrong’s personality, Strickland leaves the reader to make an independent decision on whether to actually like the guy or not, which is refreshing given Armstrong’s deathlike grip on reinforcing a positive public image at nearly any cost. And even if one might end up believing that Armstrong might want to reconsider his snippy Tweeting, there’s a lot more to the book than just Armstrong. Because while to the average American, the TDF may be reduced into the image of the infamous Texan, in reality, his teammates, fellow pros, and rivals are what make the three week stage race so compelling. Cadel Evans, Jens Voigt, and Fabian Cancellara all grace the pages and the stages of the book, and while Armstrong’s athletic ability and drive are as impressive as ever, in the end, it was the wheel of Cuddles, Voigt, or FabCan that I wanted to jump onto, to hang on breathless and follow.

Part of that is due to personal bias, but [unsurprisingly, if you read Strickland’s Sitting In] it’s also due to what Strickland does best: telling the “smaller” story of the characters that are necessary for any Tour. The characters without which Armstrong’s victories would be at best, boring, and at worst, meaningless. And though it could be argued that Armstrong has forgotten this fact himself, Strickland certainly has not. Though pros like Tommy Voeckler and [American] Christian Vande Velde are admittedly limited to the sidelines of the story, Strickland manages to squeeze enough of their essence onto the pages to spark a curiosity and interest that could solidify into an addiction of pro cycling as a whole, from Paris-Roubaix to the Vuelta a Espana. Personally, Boy Racer about Mark Cavendish, In Pursuit of Glory about Bradley Wiggins, Rough Ride by Paul Kimmage, and [you saw this coming, didn’t you?] From Lance to Landis: Inside the American Doping Controversy at the Tour de France by David Walsh ended up on my short list before my eyes ate up the last few words of Tour de Lance.
Appropriately so, perhaps, because what shines in Strickland’s book isn’t so much Armstrong as the TDF itself. While that may be an unintended outcome, it actually might be the better one. Because Strickland’s book is more than enough to convert a pro peloton newbie into a true fan of the TDF, even after Armstrong stops racing.
And you know, I’m all for committed, long-term relationships.

drawing new [tan] lines

“Nice size 36 shorts,” Mike said as he tugged on the back of my jeans shorts. The waist gaped open.
With a little wiggling, I probably could have slipped out of them without undoing the fly, but convinced that a wash would cure it all [I’m pretty sure it didn’t], I insisted that they were just a little stretched out. Besides, being a little too big for me also meant that the legs were a little longer. Almost long enough to cover my tan line.

“Is that your tan line?”
“...Yeahhh...Wow. Damn. Yours are so nice.” Jared had pulled up his shorts and pressed his thigh next to mine.
“Well, someone’s gotta be!” He laughed as I protested that my shorts were not optimal for clean-tan-line-creating. Andy just shook his head and told me that I had to ride more.
Which is true. But, in a way, I’m still sort of convinced that my Pearl Izumi Sugar Shorts aren’t going to give me the kind of tan line that makes your thigh look like it was taped off, then spray painted with tanning lotion. Being a touch too big, the padding would sometimes catch on my seat, making me stumble awkwardly. Despite the gripper elastic, the legs would creep up during my ride, too, blurring that melatonin tattoo attesting to solid time in the saddle. Never mind my jeans shorts, I needed new cycling shorts stat.

Enter Capo to the rescue. After seeing the review of the Cortina jersey, the super nice guys at Capo offered to send me a matching pair of shorts. I wanted to virtually hug them.
Let me back up. Having worn the jersey on more than a handful of occasions, even without extensive jersey experience, I can say that it is definitely super comfortable. The pockets are made of full Lycra, and while there are only two, they’re deceptively deep. Extremely soft and form fitting, there’s no flap-age, reducing the jersey to something you just don’t have to think about while you’re riding. It even passed Coach DS’s zipper test [if you can unzip it with one hand easily - no biting the collar allowed!], and the guys appreciated the attention to detail, like how the label isn’t just screened onto the Lycra. Even my fairly critical, style-conscious sister commented on how nice it looked.

All this meant that I had high expectations for the shorts. I mean, I know they’re going to look good; but Capo’s set the bar high in terms of functionality as well. When I received them, I jumped out of my jeans and immediately tried them on. The first thing I noticed was the segmented padding [ignore how phallic it looks, please], which meant the Diaper Effect was significantly reduced. The padding is comparable in thickness to my Pearl Izumis but it felt sleeker and more efficient. No more feeling like I was sitting on a Maxipad - we’re in tampon territory with these babies.

Not to mention the crossover waistband that is a godsend to those with Lycra muffin tops. It’s so thin, too, that there’s virtually no visible line under the jersey...and that jersey doesn’t hide much. My only initial doubts stemmed from the elastic around the legs; instead of gripper elastic, the shorts use a thin, slightly stretch-resistant compression elastic. The shorts clutched onto my keirin thighs and I wasn’t sure if I was going to lose circulation in my toes as a result.
But like the jersey it matches, the shorts look really good. It's dark enough that you don't have to worry about looking chubbier than you are [and what woman wants that when she's in full Lycra?], and in a weird way it almost deludes you into believing - truly believing - that you're bringing sexy back [to the bike]. Maybe I was just in a good mood, though.

But potential sexiness aside, I was concerned about how it would stand up to a decent ride. So I suited up and clipped in to drag the Cross Monster out on an easy 30 miler.
When I sat down on the saddle, my first thought was, weirdly enough, that it was slippery. The next thought was that I could definitely feel the saddle underneath me, a lot more than when I’m wearing my other shorts. Not in a bad way; I was just more conscious of it. There was no need to rock back and forth trying to figure out where my sit bones went. For once, I knew exactly where they were and I had them right where I wanted them.
To be honest, after those first two revelations, I hardly noticed what I was wearing for most of the ride and had to force myself to concentrate on whatever signals my butt was sending to my brain. The one thing that really stood out, though, is that these shorts will not budge. The compression elastic around the legs that I wasn’t so sure about wasn’t uncomfortable or distracting while riding; in fact, they held everything down and refused to creep up. There was no adjusting or pulling down because white skin was emerging from the bottom of my shorts. Unless I forcibly pulled them up or down, those things weren’t moving. At all.

Which meant that when I came home tired and happy, and peeled off my gear, the longer Capo shorts had already left a sharp, clear tan line. Like the kind that looks comically fake but has turned into a point of pride for those of us who are obsessed with bicycles. Never mind the fact that my thighs now legitimately look like candy corn, and that mini skirts might be out of the question for the rest of the summer. Those shorts are going to make me look pro, even without clothes on.
And really, what more can a girl [on a bike] ask for?