travelocity

I don’t like to say that I hate to travel. The statement seems to immediately make you a smaller, closed-minded person who is only capable of being comfortable in familiar surroundings. It seems to kill off any ideas that you might have a sense of curiosity or adventure, or that you are in any way cultured. And that kind of sucks.
So I say, yeah, I love to travel. Gimme Europe, I’ve never been, and southeast Asia too. Dying to go to India, even if the water might kill me, and Machu Picchu is definitely on the list.
If only all that traveling wasn’t involved...!

I’ll be honest. I’ve traveled enough times that the process just isn’t that exciting to me anymore. Unlike those who get excited at simply being inside an airport, the fluorescent lights and dry air characteristic of airplane terminals give me an instant exhaustion headache. I get cranky, thirsty, and bloated. Despite the countless times I’ve flown from Tokyo to New York or Philadelphia or Boston, I still haven’t shaken that feeling of wanting to just lie horizontally for at least 8 hours after a 12 hour flight. But of course there’s customs, immigration, baggage claim. And that headache.
So even if I tell myself that I have more friends in the city than in Boston, that it’s warmer down there, and that there are more vegan-friendly cafes in the Lower East Side alone than in all of Boston including Metro West, it’s strange that I’m making the trek out to NYC yet again. I got that headache [it’s not exclusive to airports], and I was also cranky, thirsty, and bloated, but this time it wasn’t family, home cooked meals, or the desire to simply get away that had me making the trip. It was a bicycle.

It’s not new - pictures of it abound on this blog - and it’s not even mine. But the aluminum Cyfac that I can somehow manage to stand over presents the perfect solution to my current lack of gears, exasperation at the cold weather in Boston, and desire to spend time with good friends. It has me spending more time sleeping in a weirdly vertical position than I really should be, typing out posts furiously to match the speed at which the bus tumbles down the Connecticut highway, all so I can clip in today and try my hand[s] at the whole gears thing yet again. True, the whole ordeal was slightly terrifying when I first tried it, but just like a girl’s persistent pursuit of a man can break his stubborn desire to stay an eternal bachelor, perseverance can pay off. And when we’re talking bicycles, not boys, it doesn’t really matter that you’ll probably embarrass yourself repeatedly in the process.
So I’m off - ready to suffer, fall, and/or bonk! If you’re in the NYC area and see a girl on a blue and silver Cyfac with a NYC Velo cap, give a holler [or even a wave!]. If I happen to be plastered on the street, feel free to pick me up and dust me off. Oh, but make sure to save the bike, first. That thing has C-Record on it.
[And the first Rapha Scarf Friday of the year...!]

burrito brifters

It takes some practice, and you'll never get it right the first time.
But no one does; you just don't know it until afterwards. Which saves you some embarrassment...but not while you're doing it, of course. And while it can become like second nature after you've done it a couple of times [or as close to second nature as you're going to get given the fact that you really shouldn't be engaging in such activity on a daily basis], it's still confusing and a little complicated at first. It's like you don't know what you're doing with your hands or your mouth and everything's kind of messy but you still want it to be good because everyone's been talking about it. And since no one's there to really tell you what to do [at least in my case], you're half wondering like is this okay? Am I allowed to be doing this? What is this stuff all over my face?
That was me and my first burrito. And minus the mouth/face part [okay there was some panting involved], that was me and my first real ride on a geared bike.

With midget legs, I secretly despised friends who would go on vacation and come back with stories of rides on borrowed bikes, concluding with statements like, "man, it's nice to have friends in different cities." I would go home to look at my bicycles and the reflection of my legs in the mirror, standing on tip toes and imagining being able to ride something standard like a 50cm frame. Then I would force myself to imagine what landing on a top tube would feel like to erase the envious feelings. Goddamn tall[er] people.
But sometimes luck can throw me a bone, and this time it came in the form of a friend who will gladly ride slow and happens to own an extra geared bike with relaxed geometry that's just a touch too small for him. I jokingly swung a leg over it once and found that I wasn't simultaneously sitting on the top tube and standing on my tip toes. At that point a plan was established to which no amount of "I don't want to experience the buttery deliciousness of Campy Record until I can start dreaming about affording it because that's like looking for a husband when all you really want is Brad Pitt" could derail. I was stuck. With gears.

So last Friday found me on a Cyfac, chasing a De Rosa from the Lower East Side to New Jersey. Clipped in and lycra-ed out, I mostly had no idea what I was doing and kept glancing between my legs while trying to avoid hitting pedestrians, cabs, and other obstacles. Stopping wasn't as much of an issue as I had feared [no top tube + body part collisions], but too used to a heavy steel 'cross frame, I kept pulling up the front wheel when pushing off. The whole thing was light, and loose, and wobbly; the figure skater to my track bike speed skater. It could do multiple things like climb hills and go 24 mph without killing my knees. I was completely weirded out.
To be honest, it was slightly frustrating in how foreign it felt. It's like getting on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland and being like whatever that was so tame, let's get on Splash Mountain, only to end the ride gripping the safety bar and trying not to shit yourself. Okay, it wasn't that bad, but you get the point.
Retreating to the familiar, I ended up keeping it in one gear for most of the ride. But like eating a burrito with a knife and fork, I understand that it doesn't prepare you for the real experience of shifting gears. Only practice can do that. So despite the discomfort and potential for embarrassment, I'm going to dig in and hope for the best.
Hey, it worked for the burritos...

doing the wave

There are about three things that make my mornings fully worth it. Post-roller coffee made in my French press, a hardboiled free-range egg from M1's parents' chickens [they are adorable], and Older-Cyclist-Dude-with-the-Amazing-Jackets. The last even waves.
I think we first saw each other earlier this year when it was still frigid out. On Beacon Street right as it bends around the Chestnut Hill Reservoir, he'll be heading downtown as I'm rolling the other way. Both of us in leggings, he always in clipless shoes, me alternating between sneakers and Sidis, we were the select few braving the cold. He waved; not the usual subtle nod or the fingers raised in acknowledgment with a thumb still looped around the bars, but almost as if he were signaling to turn. Hand fully off the bars and fingers outstretched like a small salute. I raised my fingers in response.
We've continued this interaction for a few months now, whenever we see each other. I'm pretty sure he rides through the winter. I'm pretty sure we would be awesome friends.

Okay, I'm probably making that claim because the wave [and, consequently, acknowledgment] - from a clearly[-more]-seasoned[-than-I] cyclist - is really just a form of flattery. It could be explained by your siiiiick bike, or your ability to exude some sort of pro-pheromones [pro-mones? pro-romones?], but the bottom line is that you're getting noticed by someone else. And when that someone else clearly knows his own shit, you get to feel a little more legit.
Especially considering the frugality with which cyclists dispense waves. Not everyone will wave or wave back...which could result in that awkward, extremely uncomfortable feeling where you try to say hello to someone and they blow past you to exchange greetings with someone clearly more socially important. And even if those hints of acknowledgment are based on snap judgments on what you're wearing and how well you can hold a line, [roadies will ignore anything without a helmet on it, while clipless shoes seem to be a good sign that you're not just dicking around on your bike] it still feels pretty good when you get it. Plus, it saves you the trouble of trying to play off that rejected wave as if you were trying to...um...wipe the sweat from your forehead...or something...

But it's funny, because while in actuality it's harder to break into the roadie world, it's the fixsters that will resolutely refuse to nod, wave, or in any other way recognize that another human is on a bicycle. Well, I take that back; unless your bike is a candy-coated, anodized wonder, then they will refuse to acknowledge you, especially if you are sporting a cassette. But somehow, even when I'm struggling and going at the incredible pace of 10mph, experienced roadies will sometimes acknowledge me. And it wasn't until a few nights ago, sipping coffee with a trusted confidante and discussing friendships formed over long hours in the library, that I realized why. Like the 12 hour days good friends and I have spent in the library on weekends, or the weird antics we got into when working on legal memos until 3 in the morning, doing longer road rides can bind strangers together through the experience of common misery. There's an underlying love involved - what else can motivate us to get out of bed at 6am on a Sunday to get a good ride in before noon? - but it's the recognition of suffered pain on a bicycle that seems to dictate whether you get the nod, or not. Pretty bikes will get you looks, but unless you're really riding that thing, it won't get you nods.
There's always an exception, though, isn't there? On a rare occasion when I trotted out the track bike, pretty in pink and fixster-ed out, a familiar cyclist passed by me on his instantly-recognizable celeste green 80s Bianchi. He looked at me quizzically, eyes directed more at the bike than to the person riding it. I raised my hand and waved as he slowly realized that it was the same girl who rides the beat up Bianchi San Jose. He smiled.
Maybe he was just being polite. But I like to think that he knows that I know how to suffer.

eat to compete

"Why do straight girls always try to one-up their friends? It's so weird," my sister once said.
It's true, and something that also baffles me. It seems irrational and disingenuous to claim friendship, then turn around and compare, or worse, compete. The thing is, I'm not sure it's confined to the heterosexual female friendship sphere; we all compete with each other at certain things. Maybe not to the snarky extent that straight girls do, but in a way it's human nature to be just a little bit competitive.
So when the Salahis crashed President Obama's first state dinner last Tuesday night, I pretty much turned around and did the same.
Okay, it wasn't the White House. And it was Thanksgiving. And politics weren't involved. And there was at least an oral invite...so I didn't really crash it a la wannabe celebrities in hot pursuit of relevancy...does it count if I was the only minority...?

Yeah, didn't think so. But it was awesomely fun regardless; an invitation to M1's parents's place in Marshfield resulted in absolute turkey-and-pie coma. Organic, incredibly moist turkey, bright orange winter squash, creamy mashed potatoes, unbelievable stuffing, just-right gravy, amazing apple-cranberry pie, chocolate-pecan pie [yes, that's right, chocolate and pecan], richy frothy eggnog, and, of course, really good coffee. That all went into my stomach. In one sitting. Oh my God, I love America.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking: I'm a total glutton, right? Whatever happened to moderation?
The thing is, when you do on a decent ride on your 25 pounder of a 'cross bike the day before, the only thing you can really do when that voice of moderation pipes up is to tell it to go fuck itself. You know what I mean, we've all been there; legs dead after a ride with a brain caught between hazy sleep and adrenaline fueled alertness. The last thing you want to hear as you cram your mouth full of whatever's in your fridge is that you really need to practice moderation.

And when you do the ride in shitty, cold weather, with gloved fingers alternating between freezing and sweaty, you get a free ticket to stuff yourself silly at your favorite person's parents's house that you almost invited yourself to for Thanksgiving. And free license to polish off the mountain of leftovers you're sent home with as well.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm going to be working off that feast well into this month [can you believe it's December?]. But let's be honest, it was totally worth it; and while Thanksgiving might not exist to fuel off-season training, it's still a pretty good motivator.

dovering in

I hate to admit it but I've reached that all too familiar impasse with my usual ride to Arlington. Like that feeling of slight disappointment mixed with guilt you feel when you're hanging out with a really nice person and you try to make a sarcastic joke and they respond with a small frown and the statement, "aww, that's not nice." So to avoid sounding evil and mean you shut the hell up but end up bored out of your mind because walking on eggshells is as socially pleasant as choking on a fork. And eventually you end up avoiding the friend - or in this case, the ride - because they just make you feel bad about yourself and how "not nice" you are.
Truly nice people tend to be extremely boring, but that's not the point here.
The point is that I needed something different. Something interesting that would stroke my ego a bit. Kind of like the gay bitchy queen friend that every girl really should have. And I found it this past weekend. In, of all places, Dover, MA.

The route I took was given to me by a Rapha Conti rider months ago, but slightly intimidated by it all, I sat on it for a while. Back then, I was still hopeful that the ride to Arlington could keep me interested; people always say how nice it is to ride out there. There was no way - I thought - that this ride and I wouldn't get along.
But my interest started to fizzle and fade, and when M1 offered to recon a new ride with me last weekend, I dove in.
Being immediately suspicious of the hype that tends to surround extremely charismatic people, I braced myself for a bit of disappointment. Cyclists in Boston always talk about Dover and how awesome it is to ride out there. But like attractive people with little inner content, maybe, I thought, it was a boring ride with pretty scenery. Maybe it'll only keep my attention for a few weekends, and it'll be back to sweating over rollers because the whole outdoor cycling thing just wasn't doing it for me.

For once, though, I was elated to be wrong. The thing about Dover is that it's actually interesting. A good mix of flat terrain broken up with the occasional hill or two, and streets that are to Boston asphalt what Belvedere is to the stuff that comes exclusively in plastic handles. It's the boy you're staying up too late talking to about how awesome Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go is, not the one you just sort of like to look at but can't talk to because he just doesn't get your jokes.

Don't get me wrong. That doesn't mean that the ride isn't absolutely stunning. It's gorgeous, and then some. The narrow road is surrounded by incredible skies, fields, and farms [we passed Chickering Farm with a sign that stated it was established in 1690!]. A beekeeper was tending to his buzzing workers as we slid by, and horses looked at us curiously. It was amazing.
And because a ride is never complete without some kind of sugar-laden something, we stopped by Abbott's in Needham for frozen custard. Deliciously cold and gooey, it was like frozen yogurt and ice cream had a love child and offered it up to my growling stomach. It hit the spot, and was just sweet enough to power us through the brief rain shower on the way back home.

If my Dover ride was a real person, I'd be swooning over its sheer perfection. Just my luck that it isn't, because I really hate to share.

labored breathing

Freshman year of college, my neighbor used to get it on with his girlfriend at the weirdest time of day. In the early afternoon hours, my room mate would point to the wall and we would hear labored grunting. From him. His girlfriend remained ominously silent.
It was sort of creepy. Too bad I make those same grunting noises, peppered with gasping sighs, when climbing hills on my preferred ride route. That plus all the sweating and the whole one gear thing and it's easy to see why I opt to suffer alone.
But when a best friend is in town - the kind that will not bat an eye at the sight of me pushing the pedals on the rollers at 7am and instead offer to make coffee - well, I'll make exceptions.

So for the first time in forever, I actually didn't sit in front of a computer or a book on Labor Day. I planted my ass on my Brooks instead and pedaled a little over 40 miles [the first time I've done over 30 in about two months...the shame, I know] with the kind of company that won't drop me.
And, of course, the kind of company I'm totally comfortable grunting and gasping in front of. Out of the saddle on the climb that tends to kill me, I was inevitably making those kinds of noises that are completely acceptable when you're torturing yourself alone but are slightly inappropriate when you're with company. And just when I was in no shape to tell him to fuck off:
"Wow. You're either having a really good time or a really bad time," M1 commented.

My retort ended in a laugh/cough combo as he literally pushed me - sputtering and gasping for him to cut it out because that was cheating - the last five feet of the climb. A few more hills, a dead sprint at the slow-for-anyone-but-me speed of 22mph, and we were at Arlington in record time. I was ready to pass the fuck out.

Famished but reluctant to let the beautifully perfect weather slip away, we made a quick detour to a place that didn't look like anything Boston or New York City. And winding our way around part of the Minute Man National Historic Park, I also managed to forget how dead tired I was.
Hours later, slowly savoring espresso bean ice cream from 3 Scoops, I realized that I had forgotten all about the grunting, too. Which is not only testament to the strength of my short-term memory, but also how I couldn't care less. At least not with the company I was with.
Because when I quoted the last line of Casablanca to M1 way back in May, I really meant it.