oral fixation

Yesterday, I almost couldn't wait to dump my face into food after a mere 30 miles. And I did.
Because I took a friend, Matt, on my recently discovered 40 mile route. We met early to throw down a few miles; he on a geared bike, kitted out, and looking every part the serious roadie [minus the shorn legs]. Me on the Bianchi, messenger bag strapped to my back, but jersey-fied and sporting a new CB hat. We made an odd combo and I almost cringed at how I must look - the novice female friend with ill-equipped bike, sans kit, struggling to keep up with the more seasoned male cyclist [despite the fact that Matt's more runner than cyclist].
And was I struggling. The first time I've ridden that route with another person, I was throwing all kinds of things into my mouth.

Matt set a quick pace and while we alternated drafting, he predictably dropped me at almost every climb. 10 miles in and I knew my knee wasn't going to hold up. So before the mile-long thigh juicer of a climb, I stopped to pop an Aleve [don't hate], and then watched as Matt became a small white speck, the "Boston College" emblazoned on his ass mocking my pathetic efforts.
We climbed, rode, swerved around potholes, and bumped into two members of the Harvard Cycling Club. I held on for about 3 whole minutes before getting dropped [again]. But with 2 miles to Arlington, I caught sight of a couple that had passed us a few minutes ago. Getting my second wind, I decided I was going to catch up and cling on. Nose nearly on my stem, curled up in my drops, I stubbornly refused to let them shake me. They probably thought I was completely insane. But hey, Matt and I ended up making it to Arlington in record time.

We stretched a little and then headed back to Waltham to refuel. And finding Wilson's Diner, we gulped down cups of coffee and calories in the form of blueberry pancakes [for me], and eggs, hash, and homefries [for Matt].

We rolled home, me mostly drained of energy. I spent the next few hours sitting at my desk, trying to regain the feeling in my legs. And between eating a few more things, I passed out on my bed, screened, and stitched.
And today, it's breakfast on the run, lunch in the office, and dinner between a run and more stitching. My summer job starts today. Not that that's going to get in the way of my munching, pedaling, or sweatshopping.
...Especially the munching.

a satisfied itch

Face flushed, dizzy with that mixture of satisfaction and exhaustion, I finally broke my dry spell yesterday.
And what a satiating way to do it. Biting my lip between panting and gasping for air, goosebumps were shooting up my neck. Even with a cramped up shoulder, there was no way I was going to stop. It felt wayyyy too good.
It hurt, too, but the masochist in me was loving every second. Bent over in a slightly awkward position, all I wanted to do was go harder and faster. Keep going. Don't stop. My hair was getting sweaty but I really didn't care. This is what I've been waiting for. Finally.
Hills.

It's been a few days since I've ridden to Arlington. And from Waltham north, there's one particular road that's a solid mile of pure climb [the pictures don't do it justice]. The first time I did it, it was all I could do to keep my bike upright near the top. I can't imagine doing it in anything less than clipless pedals, and while I can still barely breathe at the end of it, I'm pretty sure my calves look amazing from the back.
That stretch of road is one main reason I'll drag my feet before the ride. But once I'm on it, thighs burning, clutching the drops in a white-knuckled grip, ass in the air, I remember why I love this route. And coming back from NYC - a city as flat as it is exciting - I threw myself into the hills, extracting that manic pleasure from the searing pain in my legs. Keeping a constant cadence up these babies is pretty near impossible [without gears], so all there's left to do is mash [and hope I don't just fall over].

And it's not just that one mile stretch. It's climb after climb. Enough to keep it interesting, at least. And enough to have me simultaneously considering flipping my wheel to go at it fixed, but thankful for the ability to coast downhill. Ascend, descend, ascend, descend...it might get repetitive and boring for some, but for me, that moment of cresting another hill is priceless.
I also can't get enough. The goosebumps and the pain, that feeling of release as your muscles finally relax and blood is bouncing through your veins in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy. Only to speed to the next climb; a modern day Sisyphus on a Bianchi. Well, without the sense of total futility. Because at the very least, I'm gaining huger legs.
I used to think good chocolate was better than sex. Climbing hills on a freewheel definitely beats good chocolate though. Definitely.

trying to engage

This scorching heat must have toasted my brain into a half-baked mess today.
Okay, there are confounding factors. Like too little sleep and too many obligations and responsibilities that I'm literally riding away from whenever I head out west. The sheer irony being that in trying not to think about errands, hats, emails, etc, etc, etc...well, I end up thinking about them. A lot.
Although I managed to keep myself from ramming into parked cars, there was some quick swerving around potholes and roadkill, and even the need to use that squeaky front brake. And while being zoned out helped with the hills [I would be halfway up one without seeming to notice I was even climbing], I could not, for the life of me, clip in.

When done unconsciously, it takes me less than a second. But I was fumbling today, coasting and peering over my knee as I tried to engage and hear that satisfying *click*. Don't think about it, don't think about it, I thought. And then I'd think about it.
I even did that super newbie move where I thought I was clipped in only to have my pedal slip out from under my cleat and bash my shin. I also managed to scratch myself on my front brake; the icing on the cake being a bloody knee when I accidentally smashed it into a counter when I got home.

It's probably just sheer complacency. This is no NYC. These are the 'burbs of Boston, where I can stay in my drops without so much as tapping my brakes for miles. Heading out on rides sleepy and sans coffee is actually an option. Pedestrians are pretty much nonexistent, and even if Waltham is completely different from Brighton and Brookline, I know where I'm going.
And in response, my brain seems to have shut down a little. Even with wider shoulders and the confidence to do slightly shady stuff on my bike, my legs weren't tense and alert. I felt sluggish. Even a little lazy.
I suppose that's what happens when you come home.

highways and hurdles

Dear Mark,
I assume you're not passed out in a ditch somewhere after whatever may have transpired last night to celebrate the end of 2L. I'm hoping you can read this through the haze of your hangover.
Remember yesterday when I ran into you again after our rescheduled exams? And you told me not to take that route to Natick and I should go to Dover instead? And you said that this one route would be good and I'd like it because it's sort of hilly and quiet and nice?
Well, I was really excited about it, and got all changed and jersey-fied for this ride. And then like 5 miles in, I hit a highway.

I actually tried to ride on it, and then I figured maybe I shouldn't, and I tried to see if it was just a sort-of highway that ends but it was kind of scary and I couldn't imagine how I would get back. So, instead, I ended up taking the usual 12 mile loop home and then passed out when I got to my apartment. Dover, fail, apparently.
But today, I managed to make it to Arlington via Lexington. And let me tell you, it's like a whole different world. There are trees and little traffic and even bodies of water were involved! I was totally channeling Rapha Continental [but maybe without the speed, style, and grace]. I mean, this does not look like Massachusetts. Or at least the Massachusetts I'm used to.

The people are incredibly nice too, at least if you're a girl and sweating buckets on some isolated private way with no clue where she's going. Oh, yeah, I did get spit on by some kids on the way back, but I guess that comes with the territory [don't worry, I showered].
And I got lost about five times, but that goes without saying. It made the 35 mile-ish ride into something like 40, and other than a 10 minute break in Arlington, I hardly stopped. Progress, right?

I think I've found my daily route. It even has some legit hills, and twisty roads. If you weren't leaving tomorrow for New York City, I'd drag you and Obersheimer there tomorrow morning. Even though with your respective gears, you'd both dust me. But come August, when you're back, I plan on being at least a little bit stronger.
Time to sink my face into some food. Then a nap maybe, and gym time. Yeah, running starts today. I have difficulty walking, so this will be interesting. Anyway, I'm hungry. See you next week in the city, yeah?
oxox, k

the perfect pout

I've been perfecting my pout lately. Not the confidently sexy one that I may or may not put on with a cute outfit and shoes that aren't Sidis. The other one. The burning-with-envy-and-bordering-on-temper-tantrums one. The one that belongs on girlfriends trying to guilt their boyfriends into doing buying something for them. The one that belongs on a five year old who doesn't want to take "no" for an answer.
Holed up in the library, glued in front of a desk and computer, I'm pouting. Because outside, it's verging on summer, the days stretching out with the sun finally growing reluctant to leave the sky. Cyclists are everywhere, meeting in groups, reconnecting with team mates, and flowing down the streets in packs of colorful Lycra.
And just when I'm getting used to slouching over my notes, outlines, practice exam questions, and too many cups of coffee, pushing bikes out of mind [for now], friends will drop me an email, reminding me of their upcoming summers. And I'm left pouting, again. This time in furious jealousy.

I feel like I'm 10 years old again, standing nervously in my sister's shadow, her artistic talent far outdoing anything I could offer to my parents. But this time, there's no lingering bitterness when I'm living vicariously through gorgeous pictures and poignant journal entries. There's none of that disconnect that comes with knowing that you're outside the loop, that you're simply spectating. It's more a cocktail of envy tinged with excitement; the desire to actually live that, combined with a dash of "I want to be faster" and a generous squeeze of "I need a road bike, like right now."

Not that I'd ever be able to keep up with the gentlemen of Rapha [which is probably a good thing as I'm far from the photogenic creatures they've managed to find to fill their stables]. Which is more reason to pout...if it weren't for the Internet, blogs, and my stalkerish mouse hovering over this particular bookmarked page. Instead, I can't resist a smile as I draw my laptop closer, tuck a leg underneath me and pretend I'm coasting effortlessly on a team-issue Rapha bike through Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas...
I've got one more exam before a summer of sweating on a single-speed. One more furious dash before I can collapse into the shower, steamy and starving after a decent ride, anticipating sleep only so I can do it all over again. And between the pedaling and stretching, I know I'll find time to quietly peek at the boys of summer men of Rapha.
...And, yeah, I feel the penis envy coming on already.