Finally changed my cleats...
Did a ride...
And a flat turned into two new tires [Continental Ultra Race - thanks Greg!]...
missing something
Dear RSC peeps,
I had big plans to come hang out today. I was going to do an easy 30 mile loop in Dover before planting myself at the coffee bar for too many hours. And because it's so beautiful out, I even slathered on the sun block.
Maybe it was the weather, but I was feeling really good, too. I was climbing a little faster than I usually do and making decent time. And I was really excited to see you guys [because it's been like what, FOUR DAYS?].
So I was super focused on my ride. An hour passed and I was getting kind of thirsty so I looked down and...
...Yeah. I don't know when I'm going to stop being an idiot, either.
I'm home now, but I feel like a sun-dried tomato. So see you guys [and that Americano] tomorrow.
-k.
pouring it on
“You’ve really been pouring it on, huh?” Jeremy said, when we met up at RSC a few weeks ago.
It was the week I did my first RSC group ride, which was followed up mid-week with another lesson in how to close [gaps] with Geoff and Dave N. The next day, we were back in Lexington for a 60-ish mile ride out to Harvard. Easy pace, Jeremy had promised, so I - apparently too trusting for my own good - had agreed.
Maybe it was the coffee cupping we did before taking off [a Stumptown blend via a french press and as a pourover], but we started out at Geoff and Dave’s usual [easy] pace of 19mph. “I think we got outvoted on the pace,” Jeremy said to me as I alternated between scrambling in my little ring and struggling in the big one. We weren’t even 30 minutes into the ride and my legs were not cooperating. “But Geoff has to turn off at some point, then we can take over,” Jeremy added, providing some hope of relief. That didn’t, however, keep me from feeling like the fat kid in gym class.
Ah, the memories of junior high. In reality, though I’ve never been obese, I’ve always been the awkward, invisible one. In gym class, I consistently got picked next-to-last in dodgeball [adding insult to injury by simultaneously depriving me of “last pick” status]. I was never a completely useless teammate, but one that obviously was not going to last long in the game.
My classmates weren’t wrong to think so: I couldn’t run fast or far, couldn’t throw or catch a ball to save my life, and generally had little interest in physical exertion. I was never an athlete, had never possessed the agility and strength to claim to be one, and ditched gym class for art class as soon as I was permitted to do so. And as if to compensate for my lack of endurance, I picked up smoking in college. “Me? Run?,” I’d say, as a cigarette dangled from my lips. I’d take a big drag then; the thought of running and/or the three minute walk to my destination having winded me, necessitating another cigarette. I survived a part of college on carcinogens and caffeine as muscles atrophied. The former, ironcially, eventually showing me that I had more lung capacity than I had previously thought.
I never tired of coating my lungs in tar, but called it quits when I started to get serious about cycling. Breathing [oxygen] having become a priority, it dawned on me that my lungs might not feel like exploding if I wasn’t sucking on a cigarette at the end of every ride. I shared this revelation with my sister soon after a doctor diagnosed her with asthma. “Yeah, that’s good, I should quit. I’m having trouble breathing, too,” she said, exhaling smoke on the other end of the phone line.
The theory panned out for both of us, but still lacking athleticism, I knew I had a lot to learn on the bike and a lot of bad habits to shed. The “But I’m Not An Athlete” excuse worked for a while, buying me time to build some legs before joining group rides, but like any excuse, it started to get lame. Which is why I fell victim so easily to Dave N.’s happy cajoling into a RSC ride, and to Jeremy’s plan to ride to Harvard that day. No better way to pour on the miles than with people who can make me ride so hard my eyes bug out of their sockets.
Which is exactly what happened until Geoff peeled off. The pace eased up, then, but we had about 50 more miles to go and two decent hills to climb. We swapped jokes and took turns complaining until the climbs got to our legs and all we could do was spin [as Jeremy and I watched Dave N. become a small black and white speck up ahead of us]. Between climbs we shared a Coke and shoved some food down before attempting the longest climb I’ve ever done. I remember only two things from that climb and they happened at the same time: I ran out of gears and Jeremy and I mutually fell silent.
But at the end was the infamous Harvard General Store. We had a makeshift lunch, filled our water bottles, and just to make it a day, did the extra Fruitlands loop. It tacked on more climbing that I expected, and gasping for air, I wished I hadn't smoked so much back in college [and, okay, law school]. But then we got to the top. The landscape spread out before us in the bright, warm sun and the air felt that much cleaner. Most of the 2500+ feet of climbing done, I felt a little pro. Epic, even. And yeah, if a pack of cigarettes would have survived in my jersey pocket, I might have pulled one out, Cipo style.
But epic rides require that at least 30% of it consist of gravel. So Dave N. led the way through some sandy dirt and gravel, the soft surface sinking a little under my skittish tire. I slowed down, dropping a few dozen feet behind Jeremy, unfamiliar with anything that isn't somewhat smooth asphalt. Dave N. and Jeremy smoothly skipped through the uneven path, the sun shimmering through the trees on both sides of us. And it occurred to me that sometimes, when it's not dodgeball, maybe, it’s kind of fun to be [next-to-] last in line.
We stopped on something smoother for a while, before that turned again to gravel, then into a small climb, and an uncertain descent. And as if to replace those mid/post-ride cigarettes I used to suck on, we even stopped for raspberry lime rickeys in Concord before taking the flat way home.
And because we all have that inner fat kid in us are so pro, we poured it on when we got back to RSC. Except this time, it wasn’t miles on legs, but Stumptown’s Hair Bender espresso on Rancatore’s vanilla ice cream. Affogatos for the weary legged, even if not of the athletic variety. A shot of delicious for the ride home.
...And yeah, it was better than any post-whatever cigarette.
always be closing [gaps]
Last Sunday, I got sucked into another RSC ride. Led again by Geoff, with Neal and Joe [from Seven] supporting. The initial plan was to head out as a group to Concord Center, before breaking off into groups. A few us got separated from the large group, and with Neal in the lead, we ended up hammering it to Concord. Neal also led the “medium-pace” 30 mile-ish ride, and I’d like to think he gave us this motivational speech, inspired by Blake (a.k.a. Alec Baldwin), before we headed out.
Neal: Let me have your attention for a moment. 'Cause you're talkin' about what...you're talkin' 'bout...bitchin' about that time you got dropped, some son of a bitch don't want to hold your hand during a ride, somebody don't want to ride with you, some broad you're trying to screw, so forth, let's talk about something important. Are they all here?
Joe: I think we dropped a few.
Neal: Well, I'm going anyway. Let's talk about something important. (sees Cyclist 1 drinking coffee). Put that coffee down. Coffee's for gap closers only. You think I'm fuckin' with you? I am not fuckin' with you. I'm here from Lexington. I'm here from RSC. And I'm here on a mission of mercy. Your name's Levine?
Cyclist 1: Yeah.
Neal: You call yourself a cyclist, you son of a bitch.
Me: I don't gotta listen to this shit.
Neal: You certainly don't pal 'cause the good news is you're banned from RSC. The bad news is you've got, all you've got, just one week to regain your invitation, starting with today, starting with today’s ride. Oh, have I got your attention now? Good. 'Cause we're adding a little something to today’s contest. As you all know, first prize is a custom Seven. Anybody want to see second prize? Second prize is a multi-tool. Third prize is you’re banned from RSC. You get the picture? You laughing now? You got the ride leaders. RSC got good volunteers. Get their names and keep up with them. You can't close the gaps you're given, you can't close shit, you are shit, hit the bricks pal and beat it 'cause you are going out.
Cyclist 2: The rides are too hard.
Neal: The rides are too hard. The fuckin' rides are too hard? You're too weak. I've been doing group rides for 15 years ...
Me: What's your name?
Neal: Fuck you, that's my name. You know why? Cause you had to ride to get here today, I drove an 80,000 dollar BMW. That's my name. (To Cyclist 2) And your name is you're wanting. You can't play in the man's game, you can't close the gaps? Then go home and tell your wife your troubles. Because only one thing counts in this life. Close gaps and attack. You hear me, you fuckin' faggots?
ABC. A, Always, B, Be, C, Closing. Always be closing. Always be closing gaps. AIDA. Attention. Interest. Decision. Action. Attention. Do I have your attention? Interest. Are you interested? I know you are 'cause it's fuck or get dropped. You close those gaps or you hit the bricks. Decision. Have you made your decision for Christ? And action. AIDA. Get out there. You got the rides, you think they’re going to be easy? A guy don't join a group ride lest he wants to get turned inside out. They're out there waiting to murder your legs. Are you going to take it? Are you man enough to take it? (To me) What's the problem, pal?
Me: You, boss, you're such a hero, you're so fast, how come you're coming down here and wasting your time with such a bunch of noobs?
Neal: You see this PowerTap? You see this PowerTap?
Me: Yeah.
Neal: That PowerTap costs more than your IF. I rode 970,000 miles last month, how much you ride? You see pal, that's who I am, and you're nothing. Nice guy? I don't give a shit. Good father? Fuck you, go home and play with your kids. You want to stay here at RSC, close gaps and attack. You think this is abuse? You think this is abuse, you cock-sucker. You can't take this, how can you take the abuse you get in a crit. If you don't like it, leave. I can go out there tonight, the bike you got, make myself 15,000 dollars in prize money. Tonight. In two hours. Can you? Can you?
Go and do likewise. AIDA. Get mad you son-of-a-bitch. Get mad. You know what it takes to hang on to a fast ride? It takes brass balls to hang on to a fast ride. Go and do likewise, gents. The rides are out there, you close those gaps and attack, it's yours, you don't, I got no sympathy for you. You want to go out on those rides today and close, close, it's yours, if not, you're going to be shining my Sidis. And you know what you'll be saying. Bunch of losers sitting around in a coffee shop: ''Oh yeah, I used to be a cyclist. It's a tough sport.''
These are the new ride routes. These are the RSC ride routes. And to you, they're gold. And you don't get them. Why? Because to give them to you is just throwing them away. They're for gap closers. I'd wish you good luck, but you wouldn't know what to do with it if you got it. (To me) And to answer your question, pal: Why am I here? I came here because RSC asked me to, they asked me for a favor. I said the real favor, follow my advice and ban your fuckin' ass because a loser is a loser.
the currency of friendship
Tommy was one of my closest friends my junior year of college. Accidental neighbors, I had outwardly rolled my eyes while bracing myself for a year filled with drunken, slurred shouting and loud music. Not that I knew the guy, then, but I’d heard enough and seen him around. Tall, with dark hair and classically Italian looks, I had quietly resented his smirk and good posture, equating confidence with douchebaggery. I resolved to stay out of his way that first month of the semester, scuttling around the hallways, trying to avoid eye contact or acknowledgment that I existed. But both of us ended up showing up to too many of the same impromptu frat parties, and fueled by a little liquid courage, I finally admitted that I lived next to him.
“Man, you must think I’m a total asshole,” he said.
At that moment, although the 3 a.m. blasting of Nas and Eminem came to mind, I couldn’t say that I did. Maybe I was too surprised at his response to be totally honest. Maybe his cute roommate - who made both my best friend and me spend our time competitively trying to bump into him - came to mind. Maybe it was Tommy himself, who was charmingly attractive, that confident smirk broadening easily into a happy smile that I later learned would earn him forgiveness from most women. I laughed in response to his comment as I offered him a light, and over cigarettes and red plastic cups filled with cheap, cold beer, we became friends. By the end of our first conversation, I went so far as to mention my secret little crush on his roommate: “Hey, that guy you live with? He’s kind of cute.”
His roommate started saying hi to me after that. Probably because Tommy had informed him that “that chick that lives next to us? She told me she wants to fuck you.”
Despite this obvious miscommunication, Tommy and I became solid friends. He was the guy that would lead me to believe that most American guys could easily finish a case of beer by themselves and also sparked my soft spot for thick Boston accents. I voluntarily played drunken slut to get jealous girls to hook up with him, and when I made it a habit of passing out on the frat house couch after my one obligatory beer, Tommy would play pitbull, just in case. He’d go home for the night with someone else [as would I], but we’d reconvene in the morning. We always did. And because of our adherence to each other, deep inside, I felt as if he were all mine.
The next year, though we lived on the same hall again, things changed. Tommy fell in love with someone he probably shouldn’t have and our friendship faded. He was no longer mine - not even partially - and when I finally admitted it to myself, my heart cracked a little.
It wasn’t the shattering that happens when someone you believe you love drifts away. Because though that’s a unique kind of hurt, that Hiroshima-ed part of you tends to grow back. There may be weeks or months of broken hearted tears, but in those times of “I’m never going to date again,” it’s your friends that will pick you up, dust you off, and drag you back onto the bike or into life. When you lose one of those friends, though, it goes straight to the part of you that doesn’t heal over after pints of ice cream and shots of vodka. That part of your heart that doesn’t so much as shatter as crack or chip. Like a well worn steel frame, the blemishes build character, but that doesn’t mean the process doesn’t suck.
I am intimately familiar with this due to my own special blend of social retardation and immature pride. Never blessed with the charisma to rake in crowds of potential friends [even on Facebook where the ability to operate a mouse qualifies you to be “friends” with celebrities], I’ve hoarded whatever friends I could earn. Their relative rarity leads me to treat them like treasured $20 bills, individuals to be saved for those good coffee shops that only take cash. Viewed objectively, the exchange of tender looks the same, but those friends are somehow more valuable than a promiscuous swipe of the credit card.
It doesn’t make sense, but then again, it probably shouldn’t. The currency of friendship is an odd one because no one should be keeping score. A good thing if, like me, you tend to always be in the red. Not that I don’t attempt efforts at repayment, but my friends are either too clueless to understand basic economics or, more foolishly, don’t care about the glaring liability that is our friendship. I can only hope that they have enough asset-producing friends to balance out whatever detriment I incur in their lives as I, ever the debtor, luck out on their generosity.
In a way, this deceptive sense of never returning what is paid to you is what makes the friendship real. Because in truth, friendships are costly. Socializing having become an integral part of my ride in recent weeks, my lone jersey gets squeezed out multiple times a week in my bathtub. That’s a lot more times than I would have washed my jersey otherwise, as, often stranded on solitary rides, being close enough to be smelled was never an issue. My bathroom resembles a makeshift closet of bike gear most of the time, cuticles are always dry, and those now-clean shorts are going to be slathered with chamois cream yet again tomorrow. Submerging hands in a sink full of soapy water almost every day is becoming routine, but the trade-off is worth the unpleasantly pruned fingers.
Not incidentally, my legs and ego are paying up as well. The luxury of solitude, of course, is that no one ever has to hear you voice what you suspect might be true about your abilities on a bike. When you make bike friends, however, the sharing of vulnerabilities centers not around crushes and personal complexes [as is usually the case], but strength and speed. This means I am consistently faced with the uncomfortable choice of either blowing myself up on these rides or gasping out a request to slow down. My legs might be getting murdered by people I genuinely like, and it’s not like anyone’s judging, but it remains a humbling experience to state my [many] limitations.
But despite all this, I have too easily agreed to join in on too many rides of the Jesus-Hernandez-this-hurts variety this week. Friends iron out the creases that develop on my forehead as they pull me up another climb or drag me through some dirt and gravel, and I repay them in kind with my complaining. I get dropped here and there, but I know they’ll be waiting at the top of a climb or around the corner of the next turn.
Waiting to reconvene. Because we always do.
earning waffles
“Wait, are you trying to psych yourself out?” Jon asked, on hearing my well-worn excuses.
“No, I--“
“You don’t understand, that’s what she’s been doing for the past three weeks,” Dave N. cut in.
The subject in question was, as it has been for the past three weeks, the Ride.Studio.Cafe Sunday rides, but Dave could have been referring to my aversion to group rides in general. The concern wasn’t so much skill - that time at the track taught me how to paceline - but speed. Having hung out with too many [male] competitive cyclists, I had convinced myself that I was simply too slow to hang on to any group ride. Even as Dave reassured me that the slower RSC rides were no drop, there was that all-too-Asian sense of paralyzing guilt; I did not want to impose myself upon a group of people while I lingered off the back, thumping along like a giant anchor.
So I had always replied with “okay, well, maybe when I get faster,” while never knowing when that would be. At the same time, an understanding of the potential psychological damage that could result from knowing exactly how slow I was kept me from installing the cycloputer I bought over a year ago. It sat in its clear plastic packaging while I mentally battled myself: one side demanding I install it and harden up as the other side told me to chill out and relax, because ignorance is surely bliss.
But I’m Asian, which means that I have a natural inclination to know exactly how much I suck at any given task. Even as I shunned the cycloputer, I could hear my father’s voice in my head, telling me to make spreadsheets and acquire accurate data points. This is probably to be expected from a man who has obsessively plotted his blood pressure every day for the past decade, makes itineraries that are planned down to the minute, and rewrote - by hand - all of his class notes for final exams when he was in college [thus becoming valedictorian of the economics department]. But my relative stupidity aside, it was the consequent hint of disappointment that I knew he would feel if he knew of my willful ignorance that did me in. I installed the cycloputer and prepared to cry.
It wasn’t so bad, although it wasn’t so good, either. The irony was that the very thing that I expected to keep me far away from group rides made it easier to join them. I had points of reference; what felt comfortable, how long I could sustain whatever speed, how fast I could stagger up a climb. After hitting a personal high of 34.8mph [on the rollers so yeah, it doesn’t really count], I finally caved to Dave’s constant insistence that I come out on a RSC Sunday ride. I met Dave early yesterday morning at a designated parking lot, loaded my bike into his car, and hitched a ride to RSC.
Advertised accurately as “really fun, with just really nice people,” a group of about 20+ showed up for the ride, despite the chilly temperature. I grabbed a waffle before the entire group headed out together; instead of two groups separated by pace, the plan was to choose between a shorter 23 mile loop and a longer 38 mile option after the first 16 miles. Riding mostly single file, we chatted and joked around, going easy. Given the relaxed pace of the first leg of the trip, legs feeling good and attempting to justify the inhalation of a delicious waffle pre-ride, I was persuaded to do the longer loop.
“Medium pace, right?” someone asked.
“Yeah, like what we were doing plus a little more,” Dave said.
“What’s ‘a little more’?” another joked.
“Don’t worry,” Jeremy B. said to me, “I’ll keep it slow.”
...We were doing 17+ right out of the gate. Trying to hang on to the wheel of a girl in a Hup United kit, my eyes darted from her rear hub to my cycloputer which blinked: 17.7...17.9...18.1... Dave called out that we had lost some people and we thankfully slowed down. I took the opportunity to nestle into the group, insulating myself from the blistering pace set by Dave, Jon [on his fixed gear], and Hup United. But the group kept stretching out, forcing Jeremy at one point to push it up to 20+ to drag the two of us out of the wind. Up and over rolling hills, through mostly secluded streets with beautiful scenery at a pace I probably wouldn’t have voluntarily chosen, it was like doing a Sufferfest video except I couldn’t just get off my rollers. “Oh, it’s better than that,” Dave said, and that was true: you don’t get to laugh or descend so much when you’re stuck inside, sweating out intervals. Sure, the pace was humbling at times, but it was also kind of fun to complain about it to another human being ["wait, why are we doing 22mph, again?"].
“10 miles until coffee,” Jeremy announced, when we regrouped again. 10 miles until a great Americano. My legs started to hurt less.
Two miles later, we hadn't stopped hammering. “I thought ’10 miles until coffee’ would mean we would take it a little easier,” Jeremy said as Jon led the group on his steel fixed gear with Hup United right behind him. Maybe, I secretly hoped, Jon was going to slow it down a little with his one gear. This irrational hope plus the guilt of being a shameless wheelsucker the entire ride had me inexplicably offering to draft the cyclist in front of me. There was about a bike length of a gap between him and Hup. I took a short pull.
Mental note: being nice can result in all kinds of WTF. Because Jon was not slowing down. Clinging to Hup’s wheel for dear life, the two of them paced us up hills and kept it fast enough to hurt. Someone behind me popped on a climb and I got dropped soon thereafter. I made some half-half-hearted attempt to catch them before lingering in no man’s land for a little bit, a small mushroom cloud erupting over my head.
It wasn’t a full blown bonk, which meant that I not only made it back in one piece, but I did it without drooling all over myself. The last few miles were easier, all of us staying together to crowd back into RSC for more coffee and waffles. I munched on another waffle before gobbling down a ham and cheese croissant. All washed down with an Americano.
"Now you can feel like you really earned everything you're eating," Dave said.
I nodded, my mouth full. Oh, I earned it alright. My legs were aching for the rest of the day [even after getting a ride home!] but I finally understood why riding fast and hard can be so much fun.
My legs still hurt today, and I know I won’t be hitting anything close to yesterday’s speeds for a while. That’s okay, though, because I saw my legs generate those numbers once. And next Sunday, if there's good company, I just might see them again.