kissing with helmets

There was a fly in my room last night.
Giant and green, with some hints of blue. I have no idea how it got into my room, but it swooped around my studio, launching itself across the space between my eyes and my computer. Too lazy to try and kill it, I wished with all my heart that it would just stop mid-air and die. I sat there, willing it to either disappear or fall dead, annoyed at both it and myself for being startled by its occasional presence near my head.
And in the humid heat that was anything like the cool temperatures of mountainous New Hampshire, I almost reached for a rubber band. Just to try it out.

It’s a trick that I’ve seen Brett execute several times a day at the Rapha Cycle Club. Spotting a fly lurking around the coffee table, as I looked around for a fly swatter, Brett took a rubber band, took careful aim, and released. The band jumped through the air and bounced off the stagnant fly’s body. They fell one by one, dead before they hit the ground, one even severed in half by the snapping rubber. No splatter though, and the neatly bunched up corpses - iridescently pretty if they weren’t such goddamn pests - got snatched up in a napkin and quickly disposed of.

“What are you going to do when he leaves?”
It’s a question I’ve been asking for a while now. We all knew Brett was getting married in August, that he was riding cross country for his honeymoon on custom IFs, that he was going to leave the Rapha Cycle Club and wouldn’t be back until after it had closed. It all seemed surreal though; even on his last day at work, I still saw him hanging out at the Rapha Cycle Club. But a week after that we were driving up to New Hampshire in a rented Mini, up to Sugar Hill, New Hampshire where phone reception doesn’t exist, the climbs are impressive, the roads kind of shitty, and you can get the best pancakes, ever.

A pre-wedding ride was planned but with some heavy hitters on the invite list and still without a road bike, I sat out. I had imagined a blissful morning of quiet reading while Mike climbed around the mountains on his De Rosa, maybe an excursion into town later, which I imagined could only be described by the word “quaint” [“nonexistent” might be more appropriate]. The Mini dampened such plans for Mike, making arrangements with other wedding-goers further complicated by the whole “lack of reception” thing, so instead a lazy breakfast was consumed, and what do you know, we saw the wedding ride sweep past us just as I drained the last of my Americano at Wendle’s Deli. We waved, and DS peeled off the group and offered a trip into Littleton to do a little discovering with his wife [who is, as expected, adorable].
We watched gliders being dragged across the sky, then being released to float in slow circles and land silently. There was a bike shop next to DS’s hotel, in a converted barn, and what do you know, they even offered horse back rides. I caressed an inquisitive nuzzle looking for carrots, and heard the thudding of hooves in my head and remembered the feeling of flying.

And Littleton? World’s Longest Candy Counter. ‘Nuff said.
But back to the real reason we were there: the wedding. AND THE CAKE. DO YOU SEE THIS THING? Designed by Brett to perfectly match their custom frames, it seemed like everyone took out their respective cameras to snap a shot or two. We milled about, I completed my fuzzy picture of “cyclists that Mike always talks about but who I haven’t met yet,” and for the first time in forever, I saw Jared. In a suit.

And then I saw Jared officiate the wedding.
Casual in that it wasn’t stifling, and carefully written, the speech made the crowd laugh and the bride and groom were full of smiles as they exchanged rings. People cheered as they said their vows and all of a sudden Brett was married. The wedding bands were quietly impressive in their implied weight, the rose gold glimmering pink and radiating a warmth that’s hard to come by in normal gold rings.

As the sun set, hor d’oeurves were consumed, champagne sipped, then dinner plates piled high with Tofu Wellingtons, veggies, and couscous, paired with glasses of wine, and more champagne. Speeches were given after the obligatory tapping of the glass, and though at any other event - no matter how exciting - I would have been exhausted, I wasn’t ready to go home until the wind picked up, reminding us all that this was New Hampshire, not the humid pockets of Boston or New York.

So, yeah, that’s why marriage has been on my mind lately. And as Brett and Edie take off to pedal across the country from Portland to NYC, I’m wishing them all the best. But with a stellar wedding behind them, gorgeous IFs beneath them, and forever to look forward to, I’m pretty confident that they won’t need luck or well wishes. They got this.
Congrats, again, guys! And I’ll be following your blog...so post lots! See you when you get to NYC!

i'm a loaner, dottie, a rebel

A friend once told me that I reminded him of Pee Wee Herman, “but in a good way.” I’m still struggling to figure that out; whether it was some sort of compliment, whether he meant that it was clear I was in line to inspire some limited edition dunks, or whether it was an honestly blurted out sentence followed by damage control. That was over a year ago, and I remain, as ever, completely confused.
He didn’t know then, and neither did I, that I would be dreaming of a red and white bicycle within the next few months. A steel IF Crown Jewel, in fact; mostly red [like Pee Wee’s], with a dash of white, maybe a touch of black. Classic colors because I hear that custom frames, like wedding bands, are mostly forever.

And like ideal husbands, in my mind, the Crown Jewel was smooth and perfect; like so perfect that I would never want to ride anything else and everything else would feel unnecessarily harsh due to its shoddy craftsmanship. Nothing, even a carbon fiber bike made by 8 year old South Asian children carefully selected by Pinarello for their dexterity, would ever compare. It would accelerate at the flexing of a muscle and would take me to far off places like Belgium, France, the Netherlands, and even Tokyo. We would be together, forever, and it would be the only bike I’ll need for the rest of my life. Sure, there might be something carbon in the later years of my life when my mid-life crisis hit, but out of a burning building, I would only grab the IF. In fact, in my imagination, I would even run into said burning building to carry out the IF: pristine and sparkling, ever ready to sweep me off my cleated feet, albeit with some melted tires.
All of which was sort of silly and purely the stuff of dreams because I had never ridden an IF before. Actually, my rides have been limited to one steel Bianchi single-speed which feels like it was made from water pipes, one aluminum track bike, and one handmade aluminum Cyfac that’s too big for me but has Campy Record on it. So, yes, I based my dreams on the opinions of friends who either work at IF, have IFs or who have ridden an IF. Great sample pool, I know.
But as luck would have it, last week, a green Crown Jewel arrived at NYC Velo. A demo bike for a potential IF buyer and built up with Dura-Ace. With a 47cm seat tube and 51 top tube, it was a touch too big, but something I could get my leg over, and when offered for a road ride upstate, I immediately accepted. I may have asked my customary, “really?” but it was with the intense hope that yes, really, I could take this out for more than just a spin around the block.

Late Friday morning, pedals screwed on, saddle switched out, and appropriately dressed, I headed out with Mike up 9W, the goal being the Palisades Market, maybe Piermont if we felt like it. It was little-ring-sitting-in riding for me; maybe taking it a little too easy but paranoid about hurting my leg so soon after getting back on the bike. The rear gear got switched up and down, up and down, Shimano apparently making more sense to me than all that Italian stuff that requires opposable thumbs. The bike, though obviously heavier than carbon fiber, was nothing like the steel I’m used to; it’s solid but doesn’t feel like there’s a dead body attached to your rear wheel. There was no conscious realization that it was steel or that extra effort was required to ride it. Light enough on the flats and secure on the descents, with gears that didn’t question my constant shifting, it was a lot of bike.
But it was a lot of fun bike, which was new and different, too. There wasn’t the terror of not being able to stop [I’ve given up on halting the track bike, quite honestly] but that’s not to say it’s a slow ride. Even in the little ring, with legs that have almost forgotten how to pedal, it required only a little pushing to kick up the speed to 22mph. And with no need to worry about how to slow down, it fed a desire to go faster and longer and up and over bigger and bigger hills. It got me to the Palisades Market without killing my knees or legs or lungs or heart. And I had it going even faster on the way back [although, yeah, that tailwind helped out, too].

It was over all too soon, and I almost didn’t want to return it. Actually that’s a lie. I didn’t want to return it, period. I wanted to ride it again the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. It didn’t even fit, which was the weird thing; I’d never felt such an attachment to something that was obviously less than perfect, that didn’t quite conform into my mental image of how things should be. It was clearly too big, but here I was, finding it difficult to say goodbye to something whose purpose was to fulfill a temporary curiosity; a loaner.

A few days later, I heard that little bike had changed. Narrower bars, shorter stem, the works:
“It’s different, now. You should try riding it again, next time you’re in town.”
Me and that little green loaner? That rebel?
Oh, I’ll be on it again, luck permitting. We’ve got some big adventures to live.

getting back on

“Are you coming on the ride tomorrow?”
“Um...no...?” was the most I could manage.
“You should come,” Brett continued, “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”
Though the invitation was appreciated, I couldn’t imagine going up to Piermont on my track bike, especially given the nearly two months that I’ve been off the bike. Flat road, I’ve discovered, is hard enough with my total lack of stamina. Riding at the “easy” pace of 20mph with a few roadies and a particular cyclist who likes to slam the hammer down and keep it that way on the Wednesday Rapha Ride is the last thing I am currently capable of. I mean, it would be awesome if I could do it...but if yesterday’s quick spin was any indication, I have absolutely nada in my legs.

But like because we’re talking about riding a bicycle, the feelings were familiar. The sticky, oily feeling on my face, arms, and legs. The bits of dirt and sand stuck to any uncovered inch of epidermis. That wrung-out feeling in my legs, and the hunger that wasn’t there until it was, in full force, and I would have stuffed anything I could get my hands on into my mouth. But like getting on a bike after too much time away, it was also kind of weird and slightly uncomfortable. I had envisioned that my first post-bar ride would be relaxingly long. Slow, but cathartic. The mental image of turning the pedals was part of my August fantasy of awesome things I was going to do after the bar.
And in this personal fantasy, sweat and exhaustion were involved, but not the pain or the huffing or puffing. With a gusty tailwind up the West Side Highway, the fantasy seemed to be playing out as it had for the past two months in my head. Mike kept it slow and easy on his silver, red, and blue Cyfac, dressed in Rapha black, white, and pink and matching my bike more than his own; but still, reality set in a bit as I hauled ass to keep it at a measly 16mph. Which is something I should have expected, but you know how fantasies go: weakness and lack of fitness never quite make their way into them.

Reality really hit me in the face when I turned around at the GWB. The wind was definitely not feeling me. It wasn’t even like the whole “sorry I’m not feeling you right now, peace out,” but more like “I’m not feeling you right now AND I’M GOING TO SABOTAGE YOUR EVERY EFFORTS.” My legs felt heavy and fairly useless. All of a sudden I was parched and nauseously hungry - that one banana before my ride apparently wasn’t a sufficient breakfast. The humidity that hadn’t been a problem, suddenly was. My fantasy went the way of Andy Schleck’s rear derailleur.
But maybe that’s the way fantasies should go, anyway. The hard at times, assisted by a tailwind at others, facing a decent headwind and consciously struggling some of the time ride felt like it should. And though physically straining, it felt good to be back on the bike, the discomfort slightly reassuring in its familiarity.
Even if I felt like a marshmallow on a tricycle.

under the knife ride

A few years ago, my father came gimping back from chasing my dog around outside in his sandals. He had slipped, broken his fall, and ripped off most of his big toenail in the process. It was still attached to his toe when he showed me, his foot propped up over the sink. He pushed the nail, making the blood caught between toe and nail pulse a little.
“See, I ripped it off.”
I mentally shrieked. My entire body was covered in goosebumps. I almost felt like puking and pooping my pants at the same time. Yet another reason I could never go into medicine.
I felt the same way - and possibly queasier - last night when I helped Mike change the blood-soaked gauze that was patched around his sutures. And by “helped,” I mean “watched in morbid curiosity.” Because I obviously don’t deal well with blood.

Not that I didn’t expect at least some of this. Mike had surgery scheduled to patch up his hernia for a few weeks now, and with little time and sunshine left before he went under the knife, Andy suggested we do a few laps in Prospect Park on Sunday morning. A 44cm Bianchi Valle was offered on loan but it came with flat bars, so I stuck with the Cyfac, but managed to nab a used Specialized BG Toupe saddle. I was told that it would be better than the leopard print stripe number I was currently using but I had my doubts.

Yeah, I was wrong. Again. The Toupe is flat, hard, and feels like you’re sitting on the hood of a giant Cadillac. No shifting around or constantly getting out of the saddle. Extremely comfy, it helped me concentrate on not being able to really breathe while trying to hang on with guys who were dumbing it down for me but keeping it at a steady 19-20mph. The flats weren’t so bad; but you guys know me: anything with over a 2% grade is a pretty big challenge. Gears make it hurt less, but also just remind me of how much aerobic strength I don’t have.
After a few laps, with me trying to hold the yogurt I had for breakfast down, Andy was craving coffee so we made our way to Cafe Grumpy. A few minutes after pulling up, I was sipping a delicious Americano and got nibbles of chocolate chip banana bread, a pumpkin apple spice muffin, and a zucchini muffin. All of which hit the spot after trying to keep up with two steel frames that went way faster than the aluminum one I was riding. Coach DS was definitely right about how it doesn’t matter what your bike’s made of.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back on our bikes, headed to do more bike-related things. No more puking sensations this time, or goosebumps caused by bloody bandages, just good times. And enough fun for Mike to hopefully alleviate the pain of not being able to ride for the next few weeks.
Lucky for him, the rain’s been helping out. Hopefully my domestic skills are, too.

last push

I'll be done with exams in a few days...and with my study buddy getting me sick [thanks for licking my cup whenever I wasn't looking, Matt], I have't been on the bike in what feels like forev.

It's the last push. I'll be done...DONE!!!...before the week is out. Meanwhile, get out there and ride lots for me!

back on the tank

I watched some bits and pieces of the World Track Cycling Championships on cycling.tv [yes, the ones from March...I know, I know] last Sunday while sweltering in the humid heat. Mike just randomly put it on his computer; he later said it should be inspiring, but I think he just has a thing for girls on bikes with big thighs.
It was cool to watch, though, especially because whoever was shooting it insisted on taking close ups of all the female racers’ faces just as they started their sprint. There were all kinds of grimaces as they turned gears that weren’t ever meant for normal people, making the painful start somewhat hilarious to the spectator on the other side of the screen. Their otherwise impeccably made-up faces crumpled into a burst of speed as each racer booked it around the velodrome on feather-weight bikes that were something else.

My mom once asked - as if I would know - why female athletes sometimes have make up on before their event. A few months later, she informed me that she had figured it out:
“It’s because that’s the only time they’re ever on TV and they probably want to look nice.”
Thanks for the FYI, mom.
Anyway, back to bikes that are made to go fast. After riding Mike’s Cyfac and a few days off, my legs were feeling good, so it’s back to Dovering it every chance I get. By now the routine is familiar, and climbing onto the bike a few days ago, I pushed off...and grimaced.
You know those tactical war videos where there’s a tank that’s going over some small dirt hill at a weird angle so it ends up briefly stopping at the top of the aforementioned hill, nose pointed at the sky, before the sheer weight of the thing makes it crash awkwardly down the hill? That’s the image that was running through my head the entire time I was on my tank of a bicycle a few days ago. Shit is heavy. And to think I’m leaning towards a steel frame for that ever elusive road bike...
I got used to it after a few miles, but it was kind of a pain in the ass. Literally. My glutes were tired, my calves were seizing up again, and I reeked. Eh, easy slow ride tomorrow, I thought. Something kind of lazy but enough to get me out of the house for a while. Nothing fast, anyway.

Of course, when I make those kinds of decisions, I inevitably run into people I know who have gears and are way faster than me. This time, it was 100psi in a Rapha Club Jersey and on a Gold IF Factory Lightweight who joined me for most of the way back. My relaxing ride went the way of toe clips in the pro peloton because seriously, who has gears and actually goes slower than 15mph? It was fun, though, to ride with someone new, and I do appreciate the faster pace. I did feel a dark chill of fear when we passed Paceteaser-BRC-IF guy who thankfully was heading in as we were heading out. I sighed in relief though part of my head spun at the idea of getting caught up in a ride with BRC-IF guy again.
My legs made it home, got stretched, then the arms got to work doing some push ups and reverse flys before a shower, lunch, and coffee. Then it was back to work for the tank that is my brain, slowly lumbering through Intellectual Property law for that exam I’m taking today. The last 24 hour take-home law school exam of my life. Hopefully it’ll go as smoothly as my rides; even if it’s a little more painful than I’m probably expecting.