rapha [scarf] fridays

The first time a girl kissed me - a brief peck on the lips - I was left with the sensation [through a drunken haze], that her lips were almost too soft.
That's sort of what this scarf is like.
Wrapped in plastic and slipped into a envelope, it arrived on my doorstep a few days ago just in time for the newly-instituted Rapha Scarf Fridays. A gorgeous square of black, hand printed silk, I gingerly attempted to peel open the wrapping, only to immediately draw my fingers back. Unbelieveably smooth, my calloused hands felt peasant-like in comparison, and my first thought was:
"I can't wear this!"

I sat there for a few minutes, thinking about it. Then holding my breath, I took it out of the plastic and wrapped it around my neck. Incredibly light and smooth, this scarf is like a cloud of feathery air that feels like a million soft kisses when the wind presses it against your skin. And while Rapha might be a gentleman's club, we're not talking the kisses that come from masculine lips with accompanying sandpaper-y stubble. We're talking sexy, full, soft, feminine lips. The kind every girl should have.
And every girl should have one of these, too.

Taking a cue from one of my favorite cyclists [okay, I'm just outright copying him here], I dressed it up and down. First, I did the usual tie-around-your-face-like-a-bandit-then-just-let-it-hang deal. This is only the first step in how to wear it properly, Rapha-style, but paired with a t-shirt, it's a little more casual. Note how I was already half-giggling in excitement.
And being that I was already having trouble taking this scarf off, I tucked the scarf up and over itself [girls will definitely have to retie and tighten it afterwards] and peeled off the t-shirt for a button down.

I thought I did the librarian-esque thing well, but this brings it to a whole nother level. The black will go with almost any outfit, and the design is just subtle enough to work at the office. Top button undone, Rapha corner pointing downwards...you might want to wear this when you "accidentally" run into that workplace crush.
Did I mention how sexy this thing is too? Or how absolutely sexy it makes you feel? And how I'm having kind of a hard time taking it off?

Don't even pretend like you haven't thought about it. And for the record, I'd like to think it's more mysteriously sexy rather than crass and kinky. Unfortunately, I don't think it's long enough to tie someone up with. But I suppose you can always get two.
All semi-nudity aside, the Rapha scarf is hot hot hot. And not in that flavor of the week kind of way, but - like most things Rapha - with a timeless class that you can be sure will never go out of style.
Get yourself one [or two] here.

pony express

Coffee table books.
I love them. Not because of their sheer size and authoritative weight, but because they reveal so much about their owners. When a person’s willing to spend at least $50 on a book - especially in this day and age of Internet everything - you know they have to love the subject.
My coffee table books, tucked away in a designated corner of my bookshelf in Tokyo, are all about horses. The real kind. And tucked between the encyclopedia-esque tome on every breed of horse and pony and the one simply called “Horses” that’s clearly from the ‘80s is a book on paintings by Remington. Because no other artist could depict the vibrant adrenaline of the Pony Express.
And while I’m working on building up my own coffee table book collection of all things cycling, I’m still switching out ponies and imagining that I’m delivering letters across the Midwest [okay, or just through Boston...from my desk...at the office...]. The Bianchi is made to fit this fantasy, too; the simplicity of a single-speed combined with the this-thing-can-roll-over-strollers-and-babies toughness.

But remembering this time last year when all I wanted was another bike, I stopped back home after a morning doctor’s appointment to switch out ponies. Because I can. Because I have two bikes. And I’ve been neglecting the other one for way too long.
And the Dolan is fun. Like the first time I jumped up on a Thoroughbred, it’s fast, light, and streamlined, but also twitchy and skitterish. It has personality you can feel at the first turn of the cranks; it wants to burst out of a gate like a tightly wound spring and accelerate. Gripping the top of the bare track drops, I remembered pulling leather reins desperately as something much larger than me bucked once before taking off, my hands tangled in its mane, clinging on, trying not to vomit out my heart in fear.

Good thing I tend to putter around on my bikes. I do feel guilty about it, though. And it’s not just about how slow I’m traveling. Like that feeling you get when you stand next to someone clearly more attractive than you, riding it sort of makes me feel apologetic for not being as hot as the bike between my legs.
I suppose I can just learn to ride faster. That way people will just end up seeing a blur of black, pink, and some massive thighs.
Admit it. That would be hot.
[Note: My modem has officially died so posting might be sparse until Monday...Sorry!]

re-gruppo-ing

The unpredictable [well, more than usual] mood swings, the sometimes swirling depression, the desire to drown myself in ice cream and potato chips [at the same time]. All signs pointing to a very reasonable suspicion that my uterus is currently getting out of control.
Estrogen, I hate you.
The weather doesn't seem to make it any better either. Overcast with a just-enough-so-it's-annoying misty rain, it's encouraging me to blow off after-work rides and stay in to work at my machine. Which is beginning to get slightly stressful.
But when some Motown beats channel their way through my ipod and out my speakers, and a friend drops me an IM about receiving an inexcusably late birthday present, I'm tempted to get back on the bike, or at least on the rollers.

Having known Jones for about 5 years, I owed him a birthday present, big time. Yes, his birthday was in March. Yes, I attempted to make up for the delay with a cog I've been lusting after myself. Yes, I like to gift things that I like.
I did get one for myself, too, but it's been staring me down from my desk, shoveling on the guilt for not riding my bike enough. Much less installing it. Admiring its sharp edges last night, I put it on the never-ending list of things to do. Cut, sew, design, embroider, email, run, ride, write. Mix and stir with an estrogen blitzkrieg and I'm tearing out my hair and crying for hours over gchat.
Ah, the disadvantages of being the sole member of Team Flying Solo. I wrongly assumed that riding/working/writing alone, I couldn't possibly drop myself. But last night, I sort of did; I found myself in the existential equivalent of that dreaded scenario that hardcore roadies talk about - getting dropped from the pack, 70 miles from home, just as it starts to rain. Oh yeah, and obviously cursing my lack of gears.

Shit Life happens, I guess. And when you're stuck in that kind of "OMG FML" situation, there's really nothing to do but get back on the bike. So this morning, I made a promise to mentally regroup, sort through all the bullshit, and be a little less crazy.
Which is why I'm wearing my new favorite t-shirt. A Gage & Desoto original. Well, at least the first that's been printed on an American Apparel Tri-color Track shirt. M1 wasn't offering girl's shirts when he got in touch, which meant I even got to pick the color of the shirt. And do I love it. Even if wearing it while pedaling a single-speed is dripping with hipster-esque irony.
Yeah, I know. Sometimes it does pay off to be a girl.

slipshod

Dress up. Dress down.
Change shoes. About three times a day. Another summer working in Boston.
I love shoes, but this is getting to be a little too much. It feels like I consistently have three pairs of shoes on me that I'm actually wearing. Needless to say, my outfits are changing, too, almost a la Britney in "Womanizer." Almost, because I'm keeping most of my clothes on.
It doesn't go so far as "role play" [and it's not nearly as kinky]. It's just what anyone who bikes to work deals with - a change of more professional clothes carefully folded and packed in my bag with gym clothes, running shoes, and the odd energy bar. And when I scoot into the office, I change out the helmet for a ponytail, shorts for a skirt, and Sidis for heels.

The first time I've been in heels in what seems like forever, I've been feeling sort of tall this week. Which, at 5'3", is absurd. Walking around in a skirt and button down shirt added more weird to the whole mix. I might even have looked lawyer-ly, shockingly enough.

And at the end of the day, I switched out the heels for Sidis, and clipped back into my bike only to change into running shoes 15 minutes later.
In the grand scheme of things, running is closer to biking than, say, burying my nose in trial briefs and motions. Or so it would seem. Too bad I'm more comfortable with the latter two activities than the former. Stuck on a treadmill, following a running plan supplied by Jones, I tried not to hate life too much. At least it wasn't that crowded; only a handful of people got to watch a cyclist trying to learn how to run.

Predictably, I couldn't wait to switch out of those shoes for the cleats. At the end of the day, finally taking off my shoes for good, I wiggled my toes as I stretched and sighed. Another relatively physically productive day [at least my legs think so].
Summers mean shoes, shoes, and more switching out of shoes. Hopefully I'm on my way to getting shredded in the process.

operation

When I was little, it seemed like every household except mine had that game. I loved it though [who didn't?].
I remember seeing a friend with the game in college, and attempting to pick out the plastic pieces for the first time in over 10 years. Even sober, it was hard, and after about 12 or so attempts, we'd finally give up on the wishbone piece, letting the game buzz while we just tried to dig it out.
Operation was the closest I'd gotten to any kind of "surgery" up until about a few days ago. I loved biology in high school but the sight of blood and scalpels always made me queasy. Besides, I can't do math, don't understand physics, and chemistry gives me a headache.
But give me a wounded garment, thread, seam ripper, and a needle, and I will dig right in. JT at CB gave me that exact opportunity with the snapped brim of his Laek House cycling cap. Given his great compliments on his own pedal strike "Boston" hat, I couldn't say no to his request to get it fixed. Besides, cycling caps always have some kind of sentimental value...not to mention how cool that ELVS stuff is.

So I got to ripping seams. Aggressively but carefully, taking care to remember how it was assembled so I could stitch it all back together once I was done. As soon as I got 90% of the brim free and tore it open, shattered pieces of plastic poured out, cracking even further as I undid the last few stitches holding the plastic in place.

The pieces were swept into the trash can before the hat was washed once for good measure. A solid piece of interfacing was measured out to match the shape of the brim, then fused into place. The layers of fabric were then pinned back together the way they came. The sweatband inside was re-aligned and then the whole thing went under the needle of my machine.

It came out looking like new, the brim clean and whole. And minus the whole washing and drying, the entire operation look about an hour, total. That's probably less time than a game of Operation, and the plastic pieces weren't so hard to dig out.
Don't worry, I'm not entertaining any ideas of entering the medical profession. Blood still makes me a little sick, and my hand-to-eye coordination is terrible. I'll be sticking to dissecting inanimate objects, for now.

loaded

In a few hours, I'll be headed back to Beantown. Headed back to training rides [fun], a block party at Cambridge Bikes tomorrow [more fun], and running [the least fun, ever].
At least my wallet might stop getting thinner, and my tummy might also stop getting thicker. Because I ate. And drank. Delicious sandwiches [hands down one of my favorite foods], cupcakes from Sugar Sweet Sunshine, and multiple caffeinated beverages from Jack's and Ninth Street Espresso. I even cooked dinner one night, but only after injecting my arteries and heart with juicy grease in the form of chicken wings and fries.

There was even a celebrity sighting. Malcolm Gladwell, who almost looked like he might walk into Ninth Street Espresso yesterday. I was all staring him down like "oh hey, I've never read your books but I've heard of them and you should get yourself an espresso." Fail [obviously].
And then there was the TV watching. Between the multiple runs to Mood for fabric, the East Village for coffee and bikes, and the post office to send boxes of acquired things back home to Boston, I managed my fair share of Law & Order SVU, CI, and somewhat trashy true crime shows [I don't have a TV at home, so I have to get my fix in NYC]. And in spite of the inordinate amount of time I spent in front of the tube, I even managed to get blogged.

Okay, I also managed a few more things. Like getting my hands on a very limited edition Gage & Desoto bag [for the non-uber bike geeks, those are some key names of Team CSC Saxo Bank]. Wicked, right?
Mike explained that he didn't want me to leave empty-handed when he gave me the bag, seeming to pull it out of nowhere. Empty-handed? Really? This trip had me loaded full of good food, new friends, and an appreciation for those who bike in the city. Add to that super exclusive bike-related gear and I am leaving here a happy girl, fists full of stuff.
As if I really need any more reason to hop down to NYC more often.