less miles, more gears

So you know how sometimes you’re sitting around with a bunch of your best friends and just because you’re all totally comfortable with each other you start playing “Never Have I Ever...” [or whatever the male equivalent is] and then you find out that you’re the only one that hasn’t done this one thing? And then all your friends are like you gotta try it, it’s going to change your life? And then you do and you’re like eh...meh...not life changing so then you’re totally not into it after that first experience? And then someone persuades you to try it again and you figure out that you were doing it all wrong the first time and it’s actually sort of life changing?
Yeah, that’s me and gears, lately.
Having felt like I’ve hit a wall with the single speed rides, and tired of the sheer exhaustion at the end of each ride, I spent most of the weekend away from my bikes. The weather providing a good enough excuse, both the Dolan and the Bianchi stayed parked in their respective spots in my apartment as I headed to NYC on Sunday morning. I was ready to spend most of my extended weekend [Marathon Monday + a cancelled class on Tuesday] bike-free.

It didn’t work...and why would it when you bring your shoes and helmet “just in case”? I looked at the sunny weather and weighed it against my discomfort riding anything with gears, especially a bike that’s a bit too big for me. Then I thought about how it wasn’t going to change my life and that I really should have brought my own bike and dealt with my inability to climb anything more than a 2% grade. Then I figured, I gotta start somewhere, and got dressed.
And surprise, surprise...it did sort of change my life. This time around, instead of riding Mike’s Cyfac like a single speed [keeping it in the big ring and mashing], I did as I was told and started out in the small ring. I spun.

Up the West Side Highway, back into the city and around the Cloisters, it was a short 25 miler with some fun sprints and big ring action on the way back. Less miles than I usually do, but it was so easy I knew I’d have a hard time getting back on my own bike[s]. I could climb hills - real ones - at a decent clip without that inevitable slowing down. My legs never hurt like they do when I drag myself through Dover. And strangely enough, I didn’t feel like I wanted to crumple up into a ball of sleep within 2 hours of getting home.
A part of me missed that fall over feeling of exhaustion, but a lot of me really loved that unpainful rides really do exist. And if 25 miles felt that easy, with the right bike, I’m pretty sure 50 wouldn’t be a problem. And if 50 isn’t a problem...well...100 doesn’t seem like such a pipe dream.
Okay so everyone was right that a road bike would solve more of my problems than add to them. Yeah, yeah, go ahead and say "I told you so"...BECAUSE THAT'S NOT GOING TO HELP ME LATER TODAY WHEN I HAVE TO DO THAT DOVER RIDE ON ONE GEAR AGAIN. I'm working on that geared thing though. For real this time. Trust.

riding is my pcp

After riding every day for at least 2 hours since last Thursday, I was starting to feel it on Monday. Tuesday, I told myself I was going to enjoy my rest day. Instead I predictably paced around my apartment and was generally restless.
So yesterday, even with only 6 hours of sleep, I was going to ride. Besides, it was going to be something like 85F and gorgeous. Not too much wind, either. Perfect cycling weather!
Because I’m generally a wuss, I like to make up my flexible goals as I head out the door. Yesterday, I tentatively decided trying for that negative split [I’ve only managed an even split the past few days]. You know, as soon as my entire lower body stopped complaining.

That decision solidified as the ride progressed and all the kinks worked themselves out of my legs. I didn’t do so badly climbing some of the bigger hills, and I was cruising along at a nice clip once I hit South Street. Half zoned out in that happy place that cycling can take me, I kept thinking back to that Bicycling article, “Riding is My Ritalin.” Cool article, but as applied to me, riding’s more like my Paxil.
At a light, I drew up next to three women. I assumed they were all together, although one looked clearly more inexperienced than the other two. I said hello, then as the light turned green, kicked off. The woman next to me was faster, and she sped away from the other two cyclists [who I presumed were her friends]. Caught between her and the other two, and assuming she wanted to give me space to pass, I balled up to catch a draft off her until I could be on my way. But with cars behind us on the narrow road, I was stuck on her wheel. I could see her cadence changing as she shifted gears on the uneven road. I pressed my body onto my thighs, in the drops and elbows nearly hitting my knees to maintain the pace.
We hit a hill and I knew I was going to pull an asshole move. I was hoping I wouldn’t though.

No such luck. Halfway up the hill she slowed down, and for me it was either pass or tip over. I hammered past her, out of the saddle, and floored it. Not out of any motivation to prove anything to her, but with my terrible pace line skills, the cars, and the narrow lane, I didn’t want to be some douche-y wheelsucker.
I made decent time the rest of the way and bumped into a guy in a Boston Road Club jersey on an IF with downtube shifters.
“Hello,” I said. Then, “nice bike.”
IF guy said thanks, then we parted ways. A few minutes later, I hit my 15 miles [in less than 1 hr, no less!] and was excited about maybe getting home even faster. Still feeling the effects of cycling Paxil, I was actually in a good mood, humming along to Eminem on my iPod and checked out of reality.
Then, a voice drew up beside me:
“Gotta get back to work?” It was IF guy.
“Um, no...you have to? Aw I’m sorry.”
And that was the start of cycling becoming my PCP.
Let me back up. The first thing you might notice about IF guy are his massive thighs that taper into chiseled calves. Salt and pepper hair stubble covers a strong jawline and square chin. He looks big for a cyclist, but apparently that just means there is a giant fucking engine in there. He looks fit, but not unlike your run-of-the-mill recreational rider. Yeah, um, wrong. As Velocb would later describe him: deceptively fast. He slipped in front of me and just for shits and giggles, I thought I’ll draft off him for the 5 seconds it took for him to drop me. Besides, a short sprint would be good for me.
He didn’t drop me. He wouldn’t drop me. He kept just far enough ahead that I couldn’t get into his slipstream but close enough to tempt. And out of some stupid sense of politeness or competitiveness or cycling induced crazy, I chased that rear wheel with everything I had. FOR THIRTY FUCKING MINUTES.

I’m sure if I had been capable of thought, I would have wondered if I was going to have a heart attack. Instead, I gulped air and made my legs hurt more, holding out a desperate hope that he was going to get tired of the slow pace and peace out. He actually tried to talk to me during this whole ordeal and all I could do was sputter. I felt like [a much less accomplished] Seabiscuit.
We finally parted ways at the rotary. I ended up shaving off a total of 5 minutes of my total ride time, making my average speed something like 16.4mph. I sat in front of my desk the rest of the day, while my legs wept.
At least Velocb would later say that I looked “super strong” on Twitter. I actually saw Mr. Mystery Pain Cave Guy on the IF later that day, on my way home from a lecture. He waved.
Yeah...Unfortunately, I think we’re meant to be friends.

more unexpected encounters

Even knowing that on Friday I had a mini-bonk, I was still disappointed in how hard the hills murdered my legs. I mentioned it to Mike, who gave me what has become the NYC Velo autoreply to most questions from yours truly:
“You need a road bike.”
Aw, cool, thanks! SUPER HELPFUL!
Apparently, I can churn out 18mph on the flats, though [which is a big deal for me]. That was a little more encouraging, so headed towards Dover on Sunday morning, I contemplated possibly throwing some sprints in there as well. You know, mix it up, keep it interesting.

It seemed like a good plan but I wanted to keep my options open; wuss out if need be, which all signs seemed to point to me doing. My decision was cemented when I realized that the inordinate number of roadies everywhere was due to the weekly Wells Ave Crit. No need for further embarrassment, I told myself, just get the miles in and go home quietly. But of course, this was the weekend of unexpected shit happening to me at every turn, and just when I was pretty sure that this was going to be an easy peasy ride, a blue/green/white kit with a lot of facial hair under the helmet blew past me.
Embrocation IF and full kit. Had to be James. I called out hi, which was an idea that bordered on the idiotic because then I felt obliged to crank it up a lot even if I’m sure James couldn’t care less if he had to go slow or slower to keep pace with me. I did manage to gasp out some conversation, though.
So much for not sprinting/going hard.
Tired and not really feeling it, I turned back after 45 minutes [lame, I know] and decided to just hammer it back home. 90 minutes hard = 2 hours easy, right...? I pushed it through the more flat areas, but still struggled in the climbs. And mid-huffing and puffing, I heard a voice over my left shoulder:
“A freewheel? Really?”

It was RMM [on yet another IF], who I haven’t seen in forever. Of course he caught me just as I was hitting that stretch of road where I was contemplating doing intervals or sprints or laps or whatever stupid idea was floating around in my head, and since he’s a Cat 3, I ended up doing exactly what I was trying to avoid. We ended up talking about the crit, and when he learned I’ve never been, he insisted I go check it out.
I was under the impression that this thing was sort of hilly. Wrong. It’s as flat as I am.

RMM took me around the course on the sidewalk as the B race was going on. It’s a short course consisting of a total of 15 laps, something like 12 miles for Ds and Cs. Navigating the course slowly, RMM pointed out which corners were what and where people usually crashed.
I watched the end of the B race, the start of the A race, got some blurry pictures, then headed home. It was a nice, unexpected twist to the usual ride and even if everyone who is anyone in the Boston cycling scene got to see me in my slightly retarded Lucky Charms jersey, I was feeling good. Even with my previous efforts, I was going at a decent clip, too.
Then I threw my chain.

Campy peanut butter wrench came out of the aforementioned jersey, chain got fixed, and I came home with black stuff all over my hands and arms. Ah, what a Sunday.
[Apparently, I missed a spectacular crash at the end of the A race. Hope everyone is okay!]

rolling through shit

When I said I was good at creating disasters, I was only half serious. I mean, I can make a pretty mean mess in the kitchen, have gotten myself into some spectacularly stupid situations, and have somehow managed to permanently scar my knees within 6 months of starting to ride. Despite all that, I haven’t endo-ed, broken my collarbone, or lost any fingers. This lulled me into being comfortable on my rides. I had a routine down, and it seemed to work.
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t prepared on those rides. I love being prepared. Not being prepared and armed with several alternative plans and to do lists exponentially increases the likelihood that I will turn into a crankopotamus. Diving straight into disastrous situations due to lack of preparation turns me into a giant bitch bomb. So I try to avoid that.
I said “try.”

Because when you’re doped up on sunshine and bike rides, sometimes, shit happens before you even realize it’s happening. And that’s exactly what happened on Friday.
With plenty of good weather outside, Mike and I planned a super easy 3 hour coffee ride. The planned route was the full 40 mile Dover loop; nothing new or special about it. Just a lazy, relaxing ride with a lot of Vitamin D thrown in. We fueled up on oatmeal and coffee beforehand, stuffed our pockets with all the essentials, and headed out in the late morning.
Even with a relaxed pace, we made good time, but an hour in, and my stomach started to growl and whine. The coffee and shared slice of banana bread were more than welcome by the time we rolled up to the Charles River Coffee House and quieted my rumbling tummy. Amped up on caffeine, we climbed back onto our bikes and headed west.

Half an hour later, I was suddenly fucking starving. Famished, I was looking at another hour and a half in the saddle with hills that kill me even on my good days. My legs felt more wrung out than painful. Welcome to bonks-ville.
The power turned down and the bitchery turned up. I was hurting and cranky and frustrated and that voice in my head started to ask all the discouraging rhetorical questions about what in the world I was actually doing. Meanwhile, I was barely able to keep my bike upright. Of course, I refused to stop, take a break, or touch the Larabar in my pocket. I felt like a failure. I just wanted to get home.
We pushed through the hills, mostly in silence as I was completely devoid of humor. Finally on flatter ground, I pushed away thoughts of a juicy [turkey] burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake and gave it all I got. Almost, almost home.
Then Mike got a double flat.

By this point, the ride had edged itself out of “terrible” and into “ridiculous.” Mike flipped his bike over and with only one spare tube on him, we ended up stuffing my 700x28 tube into his 23 tires. Somehow we managed not to release all the CO2 from the cartridges before attaching it to the valve [I’m a master of wasting those things], which is a good thing because we only had two between us. In the middle of peeling off his rear tire, I mentioned how the ride was devolving into a disaster.
“What are you talking about?,” Mike asked, “This is fun!”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. And he was right. Well, we both were. It was slightly disastrous but in the end, nothing I couldn’t handle. Which was a kind of cool thing to learn.
We did get home in one piece. And once through the door, we even came up with a really good meat snack. I heart me my meat snacks.
Shit happens [to everyone], I guess. You just have to learn how to roll through it.

success not an option

Mike is always telling me that I should start another blog [“you should start a running blog....called ‘Foot Strike,’” or when I mentioned my hamstrings, “you should just change the blog to “Hamstring Strike”]. Fed up with his constant suggestions, I told him I was going to change the name of this blog to “Face Plant” so I wouldn’t have to start another one and it would be generally applicable to my life.
So I was going to change my banner today [April Fool’s] to “Face Plant.” I was too busy face planting to get it done, though.
I’m picking myself up, dusting myself off, and heading out to do the usual 2 hour ride for the first time in a week. I can already feel my entire lower body hurting. But that’s okay, I think I’m getting used to that part.

Remember last week when I was booking it through some legit wind? My legs hurt, but I wasn’t afraid of it for once. I knew I could juice them out a little more and I’ll still be able to make it home, mostly injury free [there’s little in this world that Aleve can’t fix]. It might sound silly, but I thought that was kind of cool. Maybe proof that I was getting a little stronger. Maybe proof that there was some hidden potential in those legs. Maybe proof that I was getting this whole thing right for once.
But a week off the bike and a little bit of cabin fever makes for prime face planting situations. I’ve been trying to get back up but sometimes it can be kind of a struggle.
This time last year, I just liked bikes. And then it got complicated. Stupidly so. Who knew that what kind of bike you’re riding, what kind of jersey you’re wearing, or what kind of helmet you have on could be the basis of superficial judgment? I mean...seriously? We’re all in the equivalent of an 80’s take on a superhero outfit gone terribly wrong. I’m of the opinion that we all look pretty fricking ridiculous.
Still, being a single-speed among derailleurs, I fight that self-conscious mentality a lot. I know I stick out more than I maybe am comfortable with. I know my limitations are pretty glaring, too. And it’s clear that I’ve managed to put myself in an awesome situation where I can’t conveniently hide in a pack or relate to people who can ride for more than 6 hours. As far as the internet goes, I’m apparently the only female cyclist foolish enough to acquire two single-speeds and insist on riding them like road bikes. I’m going to be honest; that can be frustrating. It makes getting on the bike just that much harder.
But sometimes, I forget: success is not an option.

A mantra that originated on one of those rare days when I had the confidence to admit that I don’t really belong anywhere near a bike, it’s actually helped me stay on the damn thing. It even got me thinking I should try my hand at a crit, just to see how long it would take for me to get lapped [and oh yes, I would ride that 25lbs+ Bianchi]. People would probably take offense at that, but failure’s a lot more fun when you can spectacularly redefine “disaster” in the process. And quite honestly, I’m pretty good at that.
It’s all about attitude, people. Attitude in Lycra. Now off to blow up that Dover ride...!

riding obstacles

Remember when I was entertaining the idea of actually trying to race my San Jose? In a cyclocross race when I can barely run?
Yeah, that was funny. Especially because at this point, how heavy I can make my bike has become a personal challenge for me. I am piling on the pounds, yo. In fact, I’m tempted to lose 5 pounds so I can just put that back onto my bike.
But back to cyclocross, which I seem to still be chasing, despite the fact that the season ended sometime in December. I’m not careening down trails or going off-road and jumping over logs, but I climbed over enough obstacles both on and off my bike this weekend that it felt like cyclocross was right around the corner. I almost felt like I could be good at it too [except for that whole “learning how to run” thing].

Because when you’re riding in NYC, it involves a little more than rolling out of your apartment and heading southwest for however long you feel like. So, a quick recap:
9.20 - Wake up. Gauge how much I want coffee.
9.40 - Watch Mike make an Americano. Debate what I want for breakfast [this ended up being 2 slices of Ezekiel bread with almond butter and an apple].
9.45 - “You want to go on a ride, right? Where do you want to go? Wait, you want to go, right?”
10.05 - Slather on the [Chomper Body] Ballocks because why would Mike have any of their awesome women’s specific Booty Balm?
10.15 - Check the weather. Stare at my Underarmour leggings. Ask about 4 times if I should wear them “just in case.”

10.40 - Think I’m ready. Forgot to pack any food. Cut up a Larabar.
11.00 - Finally ready to leave. My bike is not. My pedals get changed.

11.15 - Headed out. Bikes are wheeled out into the hallway; we’re both in socks, holding our shoes Sidis.
11.20 - With a bike over my shoulder, awkwardly bang my way down the narrow stairwell. Put on shoes at the bottom and finally leave the building

11.40 - On our way to Central Park. Nearly get killed by two taxis and almost run over a few pedestrians. Still getting used to clipping in and out after a whole winter in toe clips.
12.00 - Laps in the park. That one hill that is not a huge deal feels like a mountain when shifting gears isn’t an option. It sort of sucks but I somehow manage to climb that motherfucker without dying. I’m notified that I make weird grunting noises.
2.14 - Headed out of the park. Decide to take the West Side Highway back.

2.30 - Ahhhh. What a view.
2.35 - Get stuck behind some hippies on bikes. The sweaty Lycra smell that I associate with cyclists is replaced by the distinctive scent of patchouli. Yum?
3.05 - Home. Done. Reconfirm that the Dover ride is way easier to actually get to.
3.10 - Climb six flights of stairs with shoes on this time, plus the bike on my shoulder. Push away thoughts of luxuries like elevators.

4.00 - Devour that Moroccan Chicken Salad that I’ve been thinking about for the past month from Atlas Cafe. YUM.
Riding a bike in NYC: not for the faint of heart or those who just sort of like it. If you want to do more than 10 miles, get ready to dodge stuff and climb stairs. Kinda like cyclocross...but without the dirt.