christmas mornings and the rapha 500

My sister loves to sleep.
This fact is not only well known amongst her friends, but might go so far as to be a distinguishing feature. It's not that my sister loves to sleep in after drinking her way through most of the previous night with friends, or wakes up at a respectable hour and chooses to go back to bed, hung over. My sister's sleep is much more intense, probably requires extensive training, and is an event that should be included in the Olympics. Getting up at 2pm on a Saturday afternoon might be an early "morning," and calls are not allowed before noon, at the earliest. Flailing arms [and sometimes, fists] would fly in[to] the face of anyone brave enough to attempt to wake her [yes, even, once, my mother's].
Yet my addicted sleeper of a sister has consistently made one exception to the rule. And that was always Christmas morning.

The anticipation familiar to everyone who has had parents loving enough to give gifts at this time of year, my sister made a practice of getting up at what I would later come to refer to as "the ass crack of dawn." Long after I abandoned the practice of jumping out of bed and racing to the tree, my sister would scuttle into my room, wide-eyed and awake [for once],
"Kaiko, Kaiko, wake up! It's Christmas!!!"
I would do the equivalent of playing dead, hoping my unresponsiveness would discourage her. It never worked - she would shake me like a cat ripping gleefully into a small and helpless rodent - but thankfully college seemed to mellow out my sister's ability to rocket out of bed at 5.30am on Christmas morning. And after a few Christmases spent apart, I'm not even sure her internal Christmas clock is still working.
As annoying as it was then, though, this year, I almost wish my sister had kept up that practice with the early Christmas morning wake up calls. Because with a road bike - my very very first - on the way, and all the little parts of it coming together [or at least sitting in a cardboard box at NYC Velo], even with snow on the ground, I would gladly rise too early to ride the crap out of that new frame. And if the prospect of a new bike wasn't enough to get me outside into the freezing cold, there was the idea [or hope] of doing the Rapha 500.

The concept of the Rapha 500 is to ride 500km [or 310.7 miles] in the seven days from December 23rd to December 30th. A feat that might not be possible to attempt if you are 1. employed or 2. have a life, it seemed like the perfect way to mitigate the damage to my arteries from my own holiday plans to inhale my weight in Christmas food and cookies [mostly cookies]. It's a fair bit of riding, and it would be difficult to accomplish without riding nearly every day of that week, but being 1. mostly unemployed and 2. lacking a life, with 3. a new road bike on the way, it seemed like a great way to get my lazy ass on the road before the new year. Besides, the first 100 people to complete it get a really cool patch!
Can you tell I always wanted to be a Girl Scout? I did. I made it to the Brownies and then either got kicked out or couldn't figure out how them bitches roll and gave up. Probably the latter.

Anyway, the problem is that with those holiday plans to devour cookies smack in the middle of plans to build up my beauty, [thankfully, perhaps, because, let's face it, I have zero proper winter gear to do longer rides in] those fantasies of getting up on Christmas Eve to churn out 70 miles [and then doing it again...and again...and again...] are not likely to materialize. I suppose I could be shamed into doing it trying it [and killing myself] on my single speed, but that idea is currently bordering on "retarded," because what kind of idiot risks life and limb doing that when said idiot will have a proper road bike in a few days' time?
Not this one [surprisingly, for once]. But because I love to live vicariously, I'll be checking up on photos, blogs, rants, and commentary on everyone else's 500. And don't you worry. That new frame's gonna get 500km on it in no time...just maybe not from December 23rd to December 30th of this year.

of chocolate, [new] bikes, and not being lazy

Okay, I admit, with the cold, the cough, and the cost of buying even more layers to layer over the layers I already wear when I ride in the winter, I haven't been riding much at all lately. I felt guilty enough about it a few weeks ago to haul all of my winter bike gear to NYC, in hopes of getting in a few rides over the weekend, but I ended up at the doctor’s instead. And while I think lethargy suits me more than I’d be comfortable admitting, it’s also fueled some scary mental scenarios.
Because with a pretty IF on the way, and legs turning into mush with lack of exercise, my panic has me visualizing scenarios where I get to the base of the GW bridge on my new bike's maiden voyage, only to turn around in humiliation as my legs shake from the exertion. In other imagined scenarios, friends drop me within seconds and fail to notice and I'm left to either fight the wind and cold myself or limp back home. Worst of all, there's the one where I fall over halfway up River Road because I'm too weak to climb the rest of the way, scratching the entire length of my new IF frame [except for the part where my legs might be] as I tumble down the hill, still half clipped in, destroying derailleurs and denting my frame on the way.
That's right. They don't call me a drama queen for nothing.

Which is why I figured a ride was in order yesterday. It wasn’t planned or expected, but the rain was supposed to hold off until 1pm. And it wasn’t freezing cold. Perfect. I cut short my gchat convo with Rich Bravo [that’s right ladies, I have Rich Bravo’s gmail address], got dressed and headed out.
Can I say something? 20 days off the bike + head wind + pms + almost no carbs since yesterday afternoon = the most pathetically sad ride, ever.
It was great for like the ten minutes after my thighs stopped screaming and I warmed up, i.e., I stopped feeling like I was going to have a heart attack. I kept up this mental chatter like, “this is totally fun! You’re outside and riding! Yay!” as my legs went on autopilot and stayed that way for the remaining two plus hours. There was some bad pop pounding into one ear but try as I might, I couldn’t accelerate. Climbing hills that usually only required a little pushing near the top turned into the kind of slow agony that’s somewhat like the feeling you might get when you end up trying to teach your clueless parents how to use the Internet. Worse, my attempted snot rocket turned into a gross snail trail all over my right thigh and leg [sorry Rapha bib shorts].

This was all exacerbated by the fact that I’ve been PMS-ing hardcore. Like “all cookies within a 5 miles radius need to watch out,” hardcore. In desperation, to keep myself from eating the entire bakery a block away, I self-medicated last night with protein instead of carbs and sugar...who knew that would make me feel like a washed up jellyfish as I attempted a simple 30-miler? Probably everyone. But in my defense, I don’t really think my rides are very hard or challenging. They’re usually quick sub two-hour rides that don’t even necessitate on-bike eating. Except this time I was kicking myself for neglecting to bring anything edible on my ride other than a bottle of water. Not even a cough drop. I was hurting. I almost tumbled down a few small hills a la my feared scenarios.

At times crawling at probably 5mph [no joke], I limped back home with a loose right cleat, a busted IT band, and shattered ego. Sure, the extreme front yard Christmas decorations I saw made for both an excuse to stop and snap pictures and ensured that my [possibly] last [for the year, at least] outdoor ride on a single speed was pretty memorable. But I couldn’t help feeling bloated, useless, and unworthy of that IF that’s on the way.
And then Clint tweeted a picture of it. And I had some chocolate.
And you know what? Weak legs aside, I’m feeling good about this coming weekend. Like really good.

the sunday breakaway streak

Yup, true to my predictably unreasonable and stubborn nature, I did that Chinese Bakery Ride again this past weekend and DID NOT GO TO THE CHINESE BAKERY. It’s a work in progress okay? [And by “it” I mean “trying new things and being more sane.”]
My excuse - like Mike’s last time - was that I needed some good coffee. Sunday morning, having left around 10am, I put myself in that stupid situation where I was battling joggers, bike commuters, and [the worst of them all] rental bike pelotons up the Westside Highway to the GW Bridge. My initial giddiness acceleration turned first into careful maneuvering around joggers deaf to the world around them courtesy of their iPods, then gradually into crawling along at 5mph behind three chubby tourists who clearly haven’t been on a bicycle since 1995. A third of the way up the Westside Highway, I, as usual, gave up. Though always hopeful that it wouldn’t take me over an hour to get over the bridge on a weekend morning, I again accepted that this would never happen.
Tired of weaving around things, I hung a left when I crossed the bridge, towards River Road, the nemesis to my flimsy thighs. 9W is awesome for relaxing, long rides, but like Derrick and Cassidy informed me, I wasn’t going to get any better or faster without experiencing some pain. And frustrated at getting dropped so easily on any climb, I had mentally resolved to climb those two motherfucking hills this weekend. So I can eventually not be such a pussy [I mean that figuratively].

I did it. I mean, it wasn’t pretty, but I did it. And by “wasn’t pretty,” I mean that my jaw was sagging, I was wheezing, and the only thing that got me up that mile long climb was the fact that there was a woman in front of me in a red jersey and armwarmers, who I resolved to keep, if not within three bike lengths of me, at least within sight. Weaving through the potholes, we both edged our way up the hill, almost at the same speed. I stayed behind her, and though I was convinced she would drop me, I miraculously maintained the same distance behind her for the entire climb. We both spun in our saddles and climbed out of the saddle and avoided the gaping holes in the pockmarked road. And before I knew it, we were done.
Maybe it was that red-jersey-ed woman, or maybe the it was the exercise-induced dopamine jumping around in my brain, but the climb seemed shorter this time, and I didn’t feel like I was going to die within the next 5 minutes. I even had this ridiculous thought like maybe I could climb some more. I ate a banana, wondered what I would do next, and then the peloton caught up.
Mike, Doug, and Francesco had met up with a few others the past two Sundays or so to do some faster rides. The first time, Mike and I had left at the same time, but riding solo, I had gotten a faster and earlier start. Pollo, who bumped into me first at the bridge, then into the guys sometime later, joked when he saw me later that day that I was in the breakaway. I had hoped for a repeat performance this week, but given my crawl up to the bridge, assumed that Mike and Co. [this time joined by David, who races for FGX Racing] were way ahead of me. Not so. My breakaway streak continues...!

I stuck around chatting to them for a while, and feeling ridiculously proud that I was able to do River Road solo, felt adventurous enough to try the Chinese Bakery Ride on the way back. The guys headed to Piermont [...then Nyack, and College Hills, and out into some alternate universe somewhere which translated into 7 hours of riding], and I headed west to Tenafly. Feeling drowsy, I figured coffee and a second breakfast was in order at Cafe Angelique.
It hit the spot. Then I hit a climb. And halfway up the first hill, I started to realize what a stupid thing I had done.
Coming off of a week of no riding, I was doing the hardest ride that I’ve ever done. River Road remains a challenge that I’m determined to conquer, but there was really no need to torture myself and do the Chinese Bakery climb on top of all that. While mentally I felt great, my muscles were just barely keeping pace. In fact, they were pretty much ready to call it quits, and I had a longer climb waiting for me.
Yeah, I considered it. I considered the shame involved in getting off and walking up. I weighed how no one would probably see me or know, and then thought about how embarrassed I would feel afterwards. I tried to cheer myself up that hill, and when that didn’t work so well, tried playing pop songs in my head. I thought about how I’d never done this much climbing on a ride before, ever, and how even if I had to walk the last few feet, it would be enough. But by then, there were only 10 feet left of the climb and though the grade was steeper, it felt more stupid to get off at that point. I remembered what Fritz said once, about the climb on River Road: “Just don’t ever get off your bike.”
When I got to the top, I wanted to almost cheer, or do Contador’s victory pistol thing, or even Andy Schleck’s cheerleader thing. I danced a little in my head, then coasted back onto 9W, over the bridge, and through the city. I was dead tired, but hadn’t bonked or otherwise tipped over in sheer exhaustion. All signs of a bike ride done well [although some might argue that a bike ride done well should always include vomiting mid-climb and legs so sore you can’t move after you get off the bike].

I came home, plopped down on the bed after my post-ride-shower-that-will-always-feel-better-than-even-the-most-awesome-bubble-bath, and fell asleep after reading the last few sentences of Bill Strickland’s newest book, Tour de Lance. Though I don’t remember it, I’m sure I dreamed of bikes and the Schlecks, Contador on the Col du Tourmalet, and a road bike that just might fit.

the chinese bakery ride

I am an expert at not doing things that one is supposed to do. I don't mean things like getting to work on time [although sometimes I have trouble with that], brushing my teeth on a regular basis, or showering more than once a week. I'm talking about that rack full of awesome designer stuff you're supposed to ask for at that hidden, hole-in-the-wall thrift shop, or the espresso beverage that's not on the menu but is the thing to get at that hip cafe. The little things that aren't so much found on the Internet as are transmitted by word of mouth among the super cool and in the know. Instead I tend to march to my own somewhat oblivious drummer, resolute in my determination to remain, as ever, not hip.
Which I'm perfectly content with, mostly because being "hip" lends itself to a predictability that I find boring. Hip-ness teeters all too often on the brink of unsubstantiated hype, consequently devolving into an "Emperor's new clothes" scenario where the food isn't that great, the drinks too expensive, the clothes really sort of meh, but you hang out there because you're supposed to until the next hip spot draws you away. Perhaps a little too suspicious for my own good, I watch and wait out the hype. I order what I want to because one secret, menu item shouldn't carry a cafe, or browse the displayed clothing because the semi-secret stash in the back isn't a fair measure of a store's worth. So [perhaps predictably in its own way] at Bunbury's for the first time a few weeks ago, I chose the blueberry muffin over the Bunbury bun [my choice later met with howls from Mike], and continued the stream of "shit you're just not supposed to do," this past Sunday on the much-talked-about Chinese Bakery Ride.
A route that Brett, Andy, and Mike discovered last summer, it's a path that turns off 9W and heads west to Tenafly, NJ. The pit stop of choice being, obviously, a Chinese bakery called Cafe Savoy that's actually run by Filipinos. Since knowing the aforementioned trio of cyclists, I had been subject to numerous emails and twitter posts displaying giant $1 baked goods and bad coffee. They talked about that ride and how much they liked it, both online and off. I had whined that I wanted to go since 2009. The considerable climb out of Tenafly kept the ride just out of reach.

But sometimes, a bike shop owner comes back from a mid-day ride in gorgeous weather and feels generous enough to offer you a road bike for the following day unless that customer that was interested in borrowing one comes around. So you count down the minutes, desperately hoping that said customer won't show, and internally cheer when closing time comes around and you didn't have to make that offer of a bike you want to ride to someone else. Then you get up the next morning, hesitant about leaving because it's actually pretty cold out, then end up forcibly dragging your boyfriend out of bed because you have a frigging road bike for once and you want to do a ride. You know, the one that you've wanted to do for over a year now: the Chinese Bakery Ride.
Across the bridge and on 9W, we rode down the familiar route, then eventually made a left turn around the third or fourth traffic light. The road narrowed, SUVs squeezing in between us, and as the road seemed to roll out and down beneath us, our bikes picked up some frightening speed. With the handling skills of a newbie commuter on crack, I conservatively rode my brake the entire way, but even so the bike was rocketing down the descent. Mike flew down ahead of me, crouching down and picking up more speed while I tried not to get myself run over by a car. I briefly remembered the 2009 Jens Voigt Faceplant, then pushed it out of my brain trying to concentrate on positive thoughts like Pomeranian puppies and bunnies in paper cups.

We made another left at the base of the hill and rode on flat yet somewhat badly maintained roads, passing by Pollo's old shop then into the center of Tenafly. The Chinese bakery appeared to our right, but Mike, hungry for decent coffee, led us to the train station which housed a traditional cafe - Cafe Angelique. I peeked inside, standing on the tips of my cleats to get a good look at their array of baked goods over the heads of parents with their children ogling the gelato case, then put in an order for an Americano and something to munch on. Mike ran inside and a few minutes later returned with two steaming cups, an almond brioche [for him] and a wheat-free "energy cookie" the size of my face for me.
It was delicious. Gooey and oat-y and full of raisins and cinnamon, it totally hit the spot and i ate that entire thing, only relinquishing a small corner to Mike [and only begrudgingly so]. I wanted to pull my armwarmers back on and doze on the bench after I was done, but it was getting cloudy and colder. We climbed back on our bikes.

We coasted 50 feet, then all of a sudden we were climbing. And I was like "holy shit."
The climb out of Tenafly [it's different from the way in], requires cresting a small but fairly steep hill, then riding up another longer one. It doesn't feel as long as the one on River Road, but it's steeper, requiring some work out of the saddle. Still uncomfortable with the whole concept of spinning my way up anything, it was nice to mash a little, and there was none of that feeling that I was going to puke up my lungs. The fact that the road didn't twist and turn helped a little bit too; you could see there was an end to it. It wasn't easy, but I felt like I did okay when I got to the top.
The ride back was uneventful, a tailwind helping us on the way. I was actually somewhat surprised at how much I liked that climb, and told Mike I'd do it again, maybe even head up to the Palisades Marketplace, bust a U-turn there, and head into Tenafly on the way back. And because I always do the things I shouldn't, thus skipping the Chinese bakery after which the ride was named, there's at least one reason to go back.
...Although...that wheat-free energy cookie was pretty killer...

triathletes, cockroaches, and 60 miles

I never understood physics. I just didn’t get it; why it was important, how it worked, etc. I’m not talking about advanced physics [that’s in a whole nother world of “I am so confused”], but simple introductory physics. I recall vague examples of energy being transferred from one pool ball to another being involved, and glasses half full of water being swung around and not spilling. That’s about it.
Oh, and one other thing: that a body in motion likes to stay in motion.
At the time I “learned” that rule, I was more concerned with why an inanimate object would have wants or desires [sadly I was the only one that didn’t see the end of any potential career in medicine or science for another two years]. But it’s all coming back to me, slowly but surely, a decade later. Because bicycles and physics are like peanut butter and jelly. They go together and love each other and people really get them together. But to me? I’m feeling like when I was eight years old and choking down PB&J sandwiches at friends’ houses just to be polite and silently gagging. I still apparently don’t get it.

But I’m trying. And that old rule about bodies in motion hit me full force on Sunday when I rolled out of bed after completely passing out at the rockin’ late hour of 11pm. I could barely walk, and with sore legs that didn’t want to fully extend, I crab-walked down the hallway to dive into the bathroom, the need to pee being the only thing that was powerful enough to get me out of bed. Descending the stairs was painful but loosened up tight muscles, the running around before I left NYC behind for Boston aiding in the recovery process.
Recovering from what? From, oh, you know, DOING MY FIRST 60 MILER, EVER. I was so secretly proud of myself, I would have danced after my shower if my quads weren’t struggling to support my weight. After doing a grand total of 20 miles during the week, I got peer pressured into going on the NYC Velo monthly ride, led by Erik of Vice Magazine. Actually, I was asked to be at the shop to help out at 7:30a.m., which apparently means “7:50a.m.” in Velo-speak. I pulled on bibs and a jersey just so I wouldn’t have to climb those damn stairs again, and “helped out” by watching people filter in and talking to people about their bikes. The group that showed up consisted of about 12 or so guys, plus 2 girls [myself included]. The route planned was a brisk 80-miler that skirted the edge of the town I grew up in in New Jersey, but knowing I wasn’t up for throwing down four times the number of miles I’ve done all week on a bike in one day, I told Andrew I would tag along until we crossed the bridge, then do a solo ride up River Road.

So in my head, I imagined a leisurely ride up to the GW Bridge, then the struggle up those two climbs on River Road and an easy ride back on 9W, hopefully in the big ring. My illusions of having the energy to go up River Road crumbled as the group kept what was probably a “leisurely” pace for them, but was uncomfortably close to “balls to the wall” for me. CJ and Erik were at the front of the group, and shot up Riverside Drive with me huffing and puffing, attempting to suck on a wheel but losing it completely.
By the time we got across the bridge, I had the distinct feeling that I had probably blown myself up trying to keep up and that trying to climb up River Road would be suicidal. We were less than an hour into the ride and I was already popping Nuuns into my water bottles [Nuuns are incredibly awesome...you can even break them in half if you have smaller water bottles or you just want to thin it out]. I thought I was off the hook at that point; the planned ride was going up Knickerbocker Road, which is west of 9W. I thought I would be solo cruising.
Until CJ, Chris F., and Stanley decided to go with me. CJ called it the “fat, slow group” while Chris F. referred to it as “the ride for people who have other things to do other than ride all day.” Whatever the ride was called, we spun up 9W, past the Palisades Marketplace, and for the first time ever for me, to Bunbury’s in Piermont. There was a decent climb or two, a muffin split with Chris, some crashing into the woods [not me], and triathletes that piqued CJ’s competitive edge enough to have him decidedly drop me on the way back [the next time I saw him was at the bridge. LOL.].

But holy shit, as sweaty, snotty, and smelly as I felt after I was done, I could only think about doing a 70 miler next time. I was able to come back in the big ring, having at last grasped the concept of shifting gears and how to manage all of them. That’s not to say I wasn’t complaining, I was. When I protested at a climb, David, a friend of CJ’s who we picked up at Bunbury’s told me that I sounded like CJ two years ago.
“Now look at him. He’s a like a cockroach. He won’t go away.”
CJ laughed mid-climb, telling a story about his last Tour of Battenkill which had me laughing despite my labored breathing. An hour later, I was in no man’s land, but it was totally okay; we all start somewhere, and it’s usually off the back. Chris waited up for me, then bombed past me on a descent, shouting as he passed that that’s what 200 pounds looks like [there’s that physics again]. I had no hope of keeping up.
Maybe in two years, though.

rides and needles

I blame my childhood epilepsy for a lot of things: the parental prohibition on engaging in sports, the inability to climb trees and my subsequent complete lack of interest in traveling at any rate faster than a brisk walk. All of which could be explained by simple laziness, but the epileptic seizures and symptoms that quietly vanished along with most of the awkwardness acquired during puberty seemed like a good enough scapegoat. Epilepsy was to blame.
It did, however, teach me how to HTFU. The fact that I had to take medicine to control my seizures meant that I got my arm stabbed with needles every few months for blood tests. I detested them. The needle always seemed larger, wider, and more deadly than it actually was. The heavyset nurse - the nurse was always heavyset, usually with glasses and pale curly hair - would approach to poke a hole in my arm with that silver needle, a rubber tourniquet making my vein swell and pulse. I imagined the tip of the hollow needle as a gaping, sharp metallic tube that was at least 2mm wide. Enough that it couldn’t not hurt, no matter how brave I was. And as the nurse approached, dabbing the pit of my elbow with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol, I drew in a deep breath...and usually screamed.
At eight years old, I would consistently bawl in sheer terror. Given that blood tests happened too frequently to count, my mother probably found it both tiresome and secretly hilarious. By my teenage years, I had learned to contain the tears, holding my breath and looking away, squeezing my eyes shut because if I couldn’t see it, it might not feel so bad. That’s never true, but it helped keep the freaking out in check. Towards the end, I actually looked, and found the way blood gushed into test tubes fascinating. I still couldn’t look, though, when they slid in the needle or when they pulled it out.

It’s been over a decade since I’ve gone in for one of those tests, but the needle and the looking away, the way I could hear my heart beating in my head, and the slow exhalation when the deed was done has been coming back to me these past few days when I’ve managed to drag my butt over the river and to New Jersey. Actually there was more involved, like my loud ragged breathing and frantic spinning while trying not to pass out, and the other day, clinging onto a wheel knowing that that would be the only way I could possibly make it home in one piece.
Caught in the Rapha Wednesday ride a few days ago with Cassidy and Wei “Top Ten” Chen, I had no hope that I could keep up, much less make it to the end of River Road. I had tried the first climb [about a quarter-mile long] a few days before; and actually considered sitting down and nursing my legs at the top. But my solo ride yesterday turned into a group when I caught up with Cassidy and company on the West Side Highway. We were joined later by Matt - who raced with Lang back in Seattle - and Chris 2 from Velo. Our motley crew slid across the bridge and bombed down the sidewalk that leads to River Road, me mostly terrified and trying not to ride my brake but failing miserably. We would group together, then spread out, the faster guys flying down the descents and up the climbs. Hitting the first climb, Matt peeled off to start the climb from the docks on his single-speed. I made it halfway up in the big ring and then spun feebly the rest of the way, getting out of the saddle but staying in the drops the last 10 feet.

We dived down more descents, dodging some nasty potholes, while Chris and Cassidy laughed at how I rode like I was still on a track bike. The final climb appeared almost suddenly. Matt peeled off again to add another quarter mile or so to his climb. I looked up, and I ditched any thoughts of doing any part of it in the big ring.
“Just spin,” Cassidy and Chris advised, making it sound easy although my legs were incapable of moving at such a rapid pace, “and put your hands on the top of the bars.”
I tried, I did. But my body would curl forward like it didn’t want to sit up and the sensation of trying to “spin” in my granny gear but finding that some sort of mashing was also involved to get up a mile long climb was weird, for lack of a better word. The only thing I could hear was my labored breathing and since the jokes had died down, it sounded embarrassingly loud. Cassidy spun beside me, telling me that I was doing great and that I was almost there and I wanted to tell him that he should look into becoming a life coach but nothing would come out. I mostly sputtered, while flip-flopping between the top of the bars and the drops. I think I managed to spit out a rhetorical “seriously?” and even laughed when Wei - who had yet to break a sweat - and Cassidy pushed me up about 10 feet, their hands on either side of my back.
It got harder after that, though. The road curves deceptively, making the disappointment that the climb wasn’t over that much deeper every time I turned a bend. I gave up. Like the time BRC-IF guy paced the hell out of me, I stopped looking. I kept my head low, peeking at the 3 feet in front of my wheel and nothing else. I suppressed hopes that it would end, and just focused on getting up the stupid thing. Not that it made it any easier, but like those all-too-frequent blood tests taught me, in a pinch, not looking/voluntary denial isn’t such a bad strategy.

At the top, I nearly fell over. We stopped for a few minutes for a bathroom break and my feet were doing that thing where they quiver in my shoes. Cassidy suggested we all go up to the Palisades Marketplace, which was only a few miles away. To be honest, if I had been alone, I would have just headed home, but I’m a sucker for peer pressure so we went, Cassidy, Wei, Chris and Matt dragging my wheelsucking ass up there and then back to the city. In hindsight, my choice not to peel off was probably a good thing, as I probably would have died a long, slow death on the side of 9W had I tried to get home by myself [or been victim to the more embarrassing alternative: bonking and cabbing it back to the city].
Back at the Rapha Cycle Club drenched in sweat and crusty, Mike asked me if I would ever do it again, but I couldn’t really think. I just sat and looked at my legs and feet and told him I didn’t know. He asked me how the shorts were, and I remembered I had a new pair of Rapha men’s bib shorts on and thought about how I hadn’t noticed anything on my ride and even how my butt never got sore even though my thighs might be a bit wide for the extra-small. But hey, if I keep riding, they’ll slim down, right?

Well, probably not with the sheer amount of food I ate afterwards. But like I told Mike a later that night, that ride was the hardest thing I’ve ever done on a bike. That’s sort of embarrassing to admit, but the complete ass-kicking I got on Wednesday was also incredibly fun. It made me want a road bike even more [is that even possible?] so I that I could conquer that ride...or at least do it with a little more grace and maybe a tad less sweat.
Eager to fill that void in my life due to a lack of gears, I helped out for a few hours that same night at the shop. I had to cut my visit a day short and hustle back to Boston the following day, sore legs and all, but when I fell asleep Wednesday night, I was hoping I could do that ride again, one more time, before I became gearless again.