tannery

I hate it when people ask me whether I prefer hot or cold weather. If I had to absolutely choose one over the other, which one would I pick? Like if all year long, it was either really hot or extremely cold, and you couldn't ever move again. It's kind of asking someone, if forced into this unrealistic hypothetical situation, whether they would rather choke themselves with a spoon or a fork. Both options have their pros and cons; but is this really going to happen?
Wait, I take that back. It actually might [the choking part]. Mostly because this heat is making me do some ridiculous things.
Like how I thought that time on the rollers would be a good idea at 8am, then decided after a pathetic 20 minutes that it wasn't a great idea and that I should really just lie down. And then falling out of my bed when I attempted to actually get up. And then heading to school on underinflated tires, thighs still twitching in protest, to stare at a few books without so much as a sip of coffee to power me through.

All of which resulted in me coming back to my apartment in the scorching afternoon heat, drenched in my own salt water [you might not be able to see it, but that is sweat from my face on my hand]. And to top it all off, I even got to experience exactly what sunblock, sweat, and eyeliner feels like when it drips directly into your eye.
Yeah, yesterday was fucking awesome.
Don't get me wrong, I love the summer. And with temperatures peaking at around 30C [or 90F], and having lived in Tokyo, I really shouldn't be complaining. It's just that I'm starting to look downright ridiculous.
The tan lines, I mean. I'm considering slathering on the fake tanning lotion. Because it's spreading.

Mid-checking-out-my-own-ass-and-weighing-exactly-how-unhappy-I-am-with-its-massive-proportions, I caught a glimpse of the back of my shoulder. Ah, the bane of sleeveless jerseys. Keep in mind that only the back of my shoulder is that tan. The front has some t-shirt tan going on that's a noticeably lighter shade. All exacerbated by the fact that I don't wear tank tops enough because the whole mess is so embarrassing.
Which makes me wonder why I'm actually smiling in that picture. The only plausible explanation is that the heat was going to my brain, again. Because after that picture was taken, I actually considered getting back on the rollers. Without coffee. Again.

The sheer amount of sweat in my hair made me think twice, and after scheduling a haircut, I ended up doing lots and lots of stretching instead [for once]. Weak, I know. But today, I'm out to a ride that might end at the gym, before I attempt to resist the temptation to cut all my hair off. Then, of course, time on the rollers.
Crazy, right?

lazy rain

I don't know what my parents were really thinking but my name is a homonym for "silkworm" in Japanese.
Or maybe they weren't really thinking.
The characters are different, obviously, but it still makes for somewhat awkward introductions. Like oh, hello, my parents named me after a worm that you eventually boil in its own cocoon to get silk thread, and no, my family isn't [legally] insane.
These days, though, the name seems more appropriate than ever. Because with thunderstorms predicted for the next week and the desire not to get sick, I'm dutifully wrapping myself up in a proper raincoat...and steaming in my own body heat all the way to and from work.

Put a cycling cap and a helmet on top of that and I was actually dripping sweat [yeah, seems like a common theme nowadays] when I got to work yesterday. The worse part being that when I got to the office, I couldn't get my raincoat off fast enough. With a sheen of salt water covering my arms, I ended up standing in front of my desk, waving my arms around as rivets of sweat ran down my face, desperately trying to free myself of the waterproof fabric.
Ripping off my shirt and tank top, all I wanted to do was douse myself in some ice water. Instead, in the tiny space between two desks, I struggled into a button down shirt, skirt, and heels, looking like I was ready to start another 9-5er at the office.

I say looking because although I was seated at my desk, a cup of coffee clutched in my left hand, I really just sat there for about 10 minutes, staring at a completely unexciting inbox, trying to somehow stop my uncontrollable sweating. Of course no amount of mental willpower actually did the trick; my mind only slowly flickered on when I heard the familiar stuttered rumbling of the AC kicking in.
Of course, the way home was worse. Refusing to wrap my legs in the same sauna-esque waterproof material, my bare legs got drenched within minutes, the water running down my thighs and the back of my knees to slowly soak into my knee highs, along with my misery. The rain and my own sweat worked to slow me down, and it wasn't until the mystery guy kitted out in an IBC jersey drew up beside me at a light that I realized that the streets were pretty deserted. The usual commuters just weren't out in this shitty weather.

With nothing to fuel my uber-competitiveness, I crawled home at a record slow, hardly bothering to pedal in better circles. The worst part being that when I got home, I was too drenched to bother getting on the rollers.
I'm justifying it as a "day off. We all need a few of those, right? I promise to do some time on those things tonight, though. Even if I get home absolutely soaked [with rain and/or sweat].

cassette.

You know that feeling when you wake up at some absurd hour from passing out somewhere that is not in your own bed after a kind of long night and you realize it's probably a good idea to leave wherever you are even if you don't really want because, hey, there's always tomorrow?
That sort of defines the weekends I've been spending in NYC with M1.
But that's how it goes, right? One thing sort of leads to another and before you know it, it's 3am and you're like fuck, maybe I should go home, but this is really good, but I really should go home, so hold that thought and I'll see you tomorrow, oh brunch? sure, and...plans tomorrow night?
Wait, wait, back up. It's not what you're thinking. Really.

Because even if the late-night scheming, trips to the city, and hours-long daily phone conversations got me to paint my nails [something I haven't done in ages], it's really not like that. Sure we've both made huge commitments - emotionally and physically - but it's not like we're getting married. Still, we did sort of have a baby together.
Her name? Cassette.

A product of six weeks of nonstop work - three of which were entirely devoted to thinking up of a name [and no, I can't even imagine what it's like to have real children] - it's finally finished. There was the proposal, a few days after we initially met, of designing a single t-shirt together, which then sort of blew up into something organic with a will of its own. Then the honeymoon period of thinking that everything was going to just fall into place. Then the little fights, frustrated rampages, tempter tantrums, and tearful anxiety attacks [yup, that was all me]. Then finally, finally, a functioning site, and the possibility of a decent night's sleep.

And so, despite the panicked terror I secretly felt as I hugged M1 a little past midnight last night in celebratory congrats, here it is. Our baby. And while we sort of pulled out the main parts of this thing out of thin air, apparently having kids isn't just between two people. Because without supportive friends who posed, critiqued, pulled shots of espresso and told the obligatory "that's what she said"s, this project would have been as productive as...well, protected sex.
Of course, I'm not condoning unprotected sex. Or having children. Because if cassette felt like a mini dry run of pregnancy and [immaculate] conception, having real kids must be a complete fucking trip.
I have to admit, though, that I'm sort of hoping cassette will last for a while. I actually wouldn't really mind 18 more years of this. Of course, that all depends on how cassette grows up. Still, as a proud mother, I'm going to let myself gloat. At least a tiny little bit.
[Oh, and I almost forgot. It's Rapha Scarf Friday.]

superbly hot

I'm really good at making faces.
You might not think it if you just met me. Or maybe you would. In any case, my Mom hates it. Which makes me just do it more, until, finally unable to hold in her laughter, she'll watch me contort my face with a mixture of disgust and amazement and say:
"You keep doing that and your face is permanently going to stay that way."
She might be right. At least about crinkling my nose too much.

But I have friends who are looking out for me, clearly. Because while I never tend to wear my own cycling caps, I'm building up an interesting collection via friends. And they're shielding my face and eyes from sun, wind, and crows feet. And for someone who habitually forgets to slather on the sunscreen, that's love.
So when yesterday turned out to be one of the sunniest in weeks [Jason apparently schemed with the weather for months to make that happen - thanks!], I was grateful that I was wearing one. Well, I've been wearing this one for a few days now, and for good reason.
It's the new Superb cycling cap.

Designed by both Jason and Croth, this hat is all about the details. The wallpaper background, when viewed from a few feet back, looks like innocent damask. But when you get close enough [to check out the person wearing it], you notice the bicycles and the subtle curves and flicks in the logo.
And then you get a little bit closer [because, please, anyone wearing this is guaranteed to be hot], and you see the underside of the brim. Teal or purple, it's a hidden sort of hip; the kind you don't need to flaunt for people to know you have it. But if you're the one doing the attracting, well, it wouldn't hurt to turn it up a notch and flip up that brim.

But no analysis of a potential mate is ever complete without a view from the back. And that's when this hat really works to your advantage. With "Boston" emblazoned on the back, you'll know where to find this hottie [or at least where to hang out to find such hotties]. And if you're the one wearing it, even better. You can still give the sexy look over your shoulder and saunter away into the crowd; because, come on, anyone with decent game can take a hint and at least try to break the ice with banter about the Bosox.
Lucky for you, this hat dropped yesterday. Check it - and the rest of Superb - out.

breaking away

Still spinning on this tdf high, it's all I can do to wait for the weekend where a tdf brunch is planned.
I'm secretly [okay, not so secretly anymore] scheming. Brioche from Bouchon Bakery or Balthazar? Or should it be a croissant? Coffee or an Americano from Abraco? I'm torn.
But one thing I'm certain of: even if I don't expect him to win, I'll have my sights on Lance, for sure.
Can you tell I'm a fan? And being Japanese, that's defined in the most manic way possible. Because although I've never been to Austin, TX [or even close to Austin, TX], I'm already a fan of Mellow Johnny's. Ignoring the obvious Lance connections, the concept of Mellow Johnny's is hard not to love: a coffee shop attached to the bike shop, all kinds of incredible bikes, and they even offer spinning classes and rides for women.
I may have posted about PDX earlier, but Austin is looking like a very good contender city, too.

And when the object of my affection throws a party with Mellow Johnny's to celebrate the 30th Anniversary of "Breaking Away" [even enacting the last scene!], well, I'm going to celebrate in my own way.
Unable to watch the Tour, but dying to be a part of it, I hatched this idea about a week or so ago, and got to embroidering late last week. My first attempt at embroidering something so minute, I found out that not only do I dislike embroidering straight lines, curves sort of bother me too. And this, like most things, was [unfortunately] full of both.

Completed late Sunday night, it made me feel sort of better that I won't be able to fly down to Austin this Sunday, when the men of Rapha will partying at an event that, if you're in the area, is not to be missed. But if I could, I'd be wearing this hat - hand embroidered with lots of love for the tdf, Lance, Mellow Johnny's and Rapha - hollering "CUTTERS!!!" at the top of my lungs. Instead, it's been entrusted to a modern day Dave Stoller to be delivered to Austin, TX. Hopefully on a bicycle with the drivetrain on the correct side. And perhaps even on his head.
Meanwhile, I'll be pushing away feelings of jealousy and the urge to pout in disappointment at another unattended not-to-be-missed event. I may even be crossing my arms. But hopefully this will be on a couch, in front of a TV with cable, brunch within easy reach, and surrounded by bicycles.

maillot jaune

It might feel like October in Boston, but you know it's summer when everyone starts chasing a yellow jersey.
Ah, the Tour de France.
Having no TV, blown out speakers on my laptop, and drowning in different projects with ridiculous self-imposed deadlines, it's a wonder I even know the Tour started on Saturday. But then again, why wouldn't I know? I'm fully convinced Lance and I are meant to be, after all.
So I'm chasing coverage of the Tour like Jan Ullrich after Lance on the L'Alpe d'Huez [coverage of the 2003 race being one of my all-time personal favorites]. Following The Man himself on Twitter is somewhat helpful. I'm dependent on friends and the Internet to fill me in on the rest.

That's not to say that the shame of having no clue what's happening at each stage isn't excruciatingly painful and embarrassing. Using handy excuses of a need to stitch, scheme, and get in shape, I'm half attempting to play it off like I'd rather be riding than watching le Tour. But honestly, I'd like nothing more than a strong cup of dark roast coffee and a brioche, feet propped up on an ottoman, watching the love of my life race from Monaco to Paris.
Instead I downed an iced Americano at Cafe Fixe while catching up with a friend. Then got deets on the second stage while IMing and coordinating projects on the phone, conversations punctuated by bursts of my sewing machine whirring. But between frustrated sighs and cramped shoulders from being hunched over a laptop or a piece of fabric for too long, I managed to slip out of my apartment for a few brief moments looking just a little bit pro.

The Rapha scarf was an instant favorite and is already on heavy rotation. But paired with a Gage & Desoto tote bag repping one of the best cycling teams in the world, it was easier to push aside the guilt and longing to go on longer rides, more often.
Which is probably a good thing. This month is looking to be a whirlwind of activity - good, fun, activity, but activity nonetheless. That's not to say that the bike won't be making the usual daily appearance, just that bike people might be coming first.
And yes, that includes Lance.