giving chase

I hate the whole concept of playing hard to get, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good chase.
Because you want the potential significant other to match you in terms of wits, humor, and even style. And if you're as neurotic as I am and you go so far as to check out another person's gruppo, you want them to at least match - if not exceed - your power to weight ratio too.
So I've been doing a little chasing these past few days. You know, just for fun. Because, as they say, "the day you stop looking is the day you die."

Too bad there's another mantra that also says, "when you decide to start looking, there will be nothing to look at." I dusted everything in my path on the way to school and back. On one gear. They had quite a few.
Of course, I paid the price later, embarrassing rivers of sweat erupting all over my body as I bought my case books. The worst part being that it didn't even seem worth it; I wasn't hurting enough. My lungs didn't feel like they were going to collapse. My throat wasn't trying to vomit out my heart. I wasn't sucking in air so hard my eyeballs hurt. That spark just wasn't there.

Resigned at the outcome of my boring commute, I dragged my pedals to Kinko's after class. But as I unlocked my bike, I saw him. Mystery IBC kit guy. Very cute, very fit, and very very married. I knew I wasn't going to catch him, and that totally turned me on.

My womanly resolve of "I WILL NOT TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER!!!!111!1" kicked in and I chased. And chased and chased and chased. He easily slid away, and caught at a red light I couldn't possibly run, I watched him disappear. Sigh.
If only I had gears. But then again, maybe I shouldn't be considering trying to wreck a happy home.

asian cyclist fetish

Being single and female presents its plethora of problems.
Add "Asian" to the mix and it's like a whole nother universe.
Like if anyone seemingly flirts with me [a rare occurrence, thankfully], I immediately imagine their rooms: a tiny closet-like space filled with anime posters, Asian language books, pictures of ex-girlfriends [all Asian], and a corner devoted to video games. If social escape from said person seems difficult, I usually just try to open my mouth and curse like a sailor in an attempt to dispel any conceptions of the socially docile, obedient, Asian woman who also happens to be a total freak in bed.
I'm not sure if it works, but I've been completely creeped out enough to run the usual checks before entertaining even friendships. Paranoid? Probably. But I like to think I'm more interesting than my ethnicity.
Oddly enough, though, I fully endorsed fetishization yesterday. I even took pictures. In a bathroom.

Okay, it didn't involve anything racy [at least in the normal sense of that term]. Just that it was my first time using the NYC Velo bathroom [despite my love for iced coffee, my propensity to hang out endlessly at NYC Velo, and the fact that iced coffee also has me running to the bathroom every other hour]. And when you find yourself in a "unisex" bathroom/shrine to all things bike, with a wrench for the cold water knob on the sink, well, the camera is bound to come out.
Not to mention that entering NYC Velo's bathroom is like peeking into the Devil's handbook. If putting a ring on [or having a ring put on by] a cyclist is your thing, that is. The walls are plastered with posters of Tour and Giro winners, and where you might expect soft-core porn or Maxim covers, are pictures of Merckx, Lance, and Cipollini.

Which might make you question if putting a ring on the object of your affection [at least in NY state] is actually possible. But blatant homosexual crushes aside, it's also a glimpse into a world that has little room for other loves. And while that kind of obsession can too easily spill over into creepy-ville, I hypocritically felt right at home.

Declaring my approval as I exited the bathroom, I wondered what I would put up on my own bathroom walls. I couldn't think of anything [mostly due to a sheer lack of posters] but late last night after arriving back to my own apartment in Boston, I found it. A picture tweeted by Competitive Cyclist, it's something worth sticking up on a bathroom wall, in front of my desk, or even by my bed. And though still unable to do a wheelie [much less a wheelie off the ground on some bling tdf bike in front of the L'Arc du Triomphe after becoming the first Japanese cyclist to finish a post-war Tour], I'd rock that kit on a 'drome.
I'd even let him put a ring on it.

sweet goodbye

I'm boarding another bus this afternoon to head back home to Boston. Goodbye NYC, goodbye swelteringly hot printing studio in Billyburg, goodbye comfy black couch in NYC Velo.
And also, in a way, goodbye summer.
Not that it's over, technically. But most cyclists will probably agree that they're feeling it pulling to a reluctant close. The hot summer rides aren't going to taper off into more time indoors on trainers or rollers just yet [unless, like me, you're dreaming almost strictly of velodromes recently]. And evenings will probably still be spent - as they should be - with a cold beer or a sticky, melty ice cream cone.
Still. The Tour's over.

The cycling event that dominates three weeks of July, it creeps up on you as you long for clear, sunny days that stretch their light late into the evenings, and keeps you, inexplicably, lingering in front of the TV or computer instead of going on that planned ride. Then in a whirlwind of graceful muscle, it's over, only the ghost of Andy Schleck's smile reminding you of why you used to be in such a good mood in the mornings.
Maybe it was just the really good espresso, though.
Unable to watch the Tour on my nonexistent TV, I was limited to following it through riders' tweets, informative blogs, and friends who gushed about the day's stage. In response to being cut out from the excitement and adventure, I tried to block it out instead, pretending that things weren't actually happening over in Europe during the week. Weekends in NYC, though. That's when the Tour could unfold before my eager eyes via Versus, the lack of sleep from passing out well past 2am only to get up 5 hours later getting pushed aside as a video camera chased Alberto, Andy, and Lance.

That tends to catch up with you, unfortunately, just when everyone hits Mt. Ventoux. Exhausted from hours of printing the night before, I slept in to a ridiculous hour [given le Tour] and booked it through the heat to NYC Velo, where a viewing of the decisive 20th stage was scheduled, along with an espresso tasting of Gorilla, Abraco, and Stumptown coffee. Caffeine, friends, and the Tour? There was no way I could resist.
The promise of such a caffeinated treat pushed sluggish blood through still-half-asleep veins and I managed to scoot into NYC Velo in just in time to watch Andy pull Lance, Alberto, Bradley Wiggins, and a lagging Frank up a giant fucking mountain that no sane person should ever attempt by bicycle. And watching the chase - punctuated by bursts of speed courtesy of Andy and those white Jawbones - I completely forgot that I hadn't had coffee all morning. I was even okay with watching, standing, as the couch and stools were all occupied by those equally addicted to Andy le Tour.

The testy bitchery from lack of caffeine only just started to stir after Pellizotti crossed the finish line; one that was situated just over a hill that looked like it was at a 90 degree angle to the ground [wherever that was]. As Versus slowly unclenched its dominating grasp on my brain and ability to function, I was handed a good strong shot of espresso, and a Mt. Ventoux of pastries to choose from. Any smartass comment I had for friends died in my throat as I sipped brown nectar and munched on a piece of blueberry cornmeal cake from the Birdbath Green Bakery. And coming off the high that is the Tour de France, it was the perfect ending to a Saturday morning.

And, I'm almost tempted to say, the perfect ending to a summer. With no more Tour viewings until [gasp!] next year, I'm already slipping into the kind of immobilizing depression that's only appropriate for New England winters. The kind that has me staring at my bike before rolling over and squeezing my eyes shut in an attempt to fall back to sleep despite the resulting overwhelming guilt. Which actually sort of surprises me, and makes me suspect that maybe it wasn't just the coffee and pastries that had me so hooked on the Tour this summer.
Sure, it's a little late in the race [mostly because it's over], but maybe I'm seriously getting into this competitive cycling thing.

almond croissant disaster

Despite how addicting it was to watch le Tour over the weekend, I was grateful yesterday was a rest day. It was one less thing to miss, and simultaneously, one less thing to sigh and roll my eyes about.
Don't get me wrong, I love watching the Tour. It was what came afterwards that has me shaking my head in remembered misery.
In fact, Sunday started out in a picture perfect way. A quick bike ride up to the East Village, beverages acquired at Think Coffee, then a jaunt into Soho to pick up pastries at Balthazar. Then, strolling back east on mostly-still-sleepy Sunday morning streets, walking within mere feet of Terry Richardson. Because a weekend in New York always requires some sort of celebrity sighting.

And then, of course, the Tour. With orange brioche, galette aux pommes, and an almond croissant that I'm still thinking about. Grabbing the last flaky half of the galette, I was half lying on the couch, feet supported by the trusty ottoman, plate resting on my chest, pastry shards flying as I shrieked and cheered on Pierrick Fedrigo and Franco Pellizotti over the soothing cadence of Phil Liggett. All, fortunately, with company that [hopefully] wasn't noticing what a complete slob I can be.
Still humming on the tdf high, I reluctantly boarded a bus back to Boston at 1pm, leaving behind a city that's quickly becoming a favorite. And two hours later, I was on the side of the highway.

In Connecticut. The middle of Connecticut. With a broken down bus and not enough seats to take us all home on the next two buses passing through. A random taxi pulled through and offered to take some of us to South Station for $250. It was tempting but none of us took him up on the offer. About two hours later, I threw my bike under yet another bus, and lulled into a sense of reassurance, passed out for a few hours in a jam-packed bus.
7 hours after I left NYC, we finally lurched into South Station. Grateful for the calories consumed earlier that day, I made it home by 8.30pm, then it was back to work until too late, and up too early for another Monday at the office.
I'm already planning another trip down to the city in a few weeks. And while Sundays in New York can start off decadently sweet with almond croissants and cycling, fearful of jinxing myself, I'm more than a little hesitant to indulge in both again.
But, you know, I can be persuaded otherwise...

kind of special

It's official.
It takes a special kind of person to leave the office at 5pm, change, get on a bike, and throw down some training miles. The obsessed kind of special where groups of friends heading to bars on beautiful Tuesday evenings can simply be ignored, exhaustion from a busy day at work is pushed aside, and sitting in front of the TV after work is just not an option.
Not that I have a TV, but I really do not want to belong to this special group of people.

I headed out to do my first longer ride after work yesterday. I'm totally okay with heading to the gym and sweating out a few miles on a treadmill after work, but back on the bike, it took a monumental effort to even do a mere 30 miles. The day at the office was spent immersed in one massive case, which meant that I was counting down the minutes until 5pm. And when that magic number appeared on the clock, it was time to squeeze the last drops of physical energy out of my legs.
It seemed like a bad idea from the start. I got home to refill my water bottle and jersey-fy and found that I was out of energy bars. Screw it, I thought, and headed out anyway. And while the route was relatively flat [compared to the 40 mile route I usually do], it made it sort of more boring. I was already tired, getting hungry, and starting to mentally kick myself for conjuring up this idea when I have to run tomorrow.

Because it takes a special kind of neurotic, too, to do rides after work. And it's not just a competitive kind of neurotic. You really have to love bicycles and everything about them to do it. Passionate neurosis, I guess. The key ingredient for anyone carving out a couple hours out of their day to pedal away. Social obligations get delayed, as does dinner, and of course, just life in general.

But then again, if I wasn't out there yesterday evening, sweating, hurting, and fighting that voice that told me I could turn back after 12 miles, I would never have seen a toilet plunked down on the side of the road. Something that, while you could appreciate from the driver's seat of a car, you can really only fully experience when you hop off your bike next to it, to snap a picture.
It's sort of gross, but it made me smile. I'm going back later this week to make sure it's still there.

[imaginary] friends

One reason I tend to ride alone is the blissful ignorance of how fast I am not going. No fancy cycloputer on my handlebars, no stop watch, just a cell phone and a mental note of when I roll out.
Of course, when you ride with friends with gears, everything sort of changes.
Not in a bad way, though. You just start to see things differently. And while I dread using the word, in a way you start to compare.
Heading out this morning on a ride, alone, I almost wondered why I wasn't with a friend or two. It's gorgeous out. Just cool enough to keep the sweat from flowing down your face in rivets, and the sun shining just enough to head out in shorts and a jersey. Not even a strong wind to discourage the ride; and thank God for that, because I was definitely dragging my cleats.

Those are sort of the times I wish I had a friend who didn't have social obligations on Saturdays, and would drag me out on rides. Maybe someone on a single-speed. Because remembering the constant dropping and catching up of a few days ago, my ego wanted to be coddled a bit, not shattered into a million pieces.
I was still pretending, though, that Matt was churning those cranks ahead of me, almost hearing that wet sound of a chain being funneled through a derailleur, and the clickety-click of shifting gears. I mashed harder on the hills, imagining him ahead of me in that bright white kit, and flat terrain meant I had to go even faster to catch up to an imaginary friend.
And I did it fast. As fast as Matt and I did it last time, even. And descending those hills, I remembered how Matt flew down them. Finally catching up to him, I said:
"You don't like to use your brakes, do you?"

He smirked in response as he shook his head. Ah, the irony of learning that brakes are unnecessary from a roadie. Or, maybe it's not so ironic at all.
Home at last, I stretched while struggling out of a sweaty jersey, shorts, and cycling cap. And oddly enough, I finally realized that while my friends may be working while I ride, I'm sort of carrying them with me wherever I go. The jersey from IBC, the spoke bracelet from Chris [plus the two bracelets from my best friend], the cycling cap from CB.
Then, of course, there's the bike. But that a whole nother story involving more friends, sub-stories, and a few broken parts. Suffice it to say that it's the product of a lot of love, and of course, very real friends.