undeniably superb

My love of bike shops is no secret; I'll stubbornly stand in cleats around bike stands, even with a knee that's throbbing and begging me to sit down, to kill time with the best mechanics around, whether in NYC or Boston.
I never thought, though, that I'd have the opportunity to watch a new bike shop develop from gutted out space to awesome concept shop. But every few weeks since early July, that's exactly what I've been doing at a particular spot on Beacon Street.
Yup, that's right. It's open. Superb, that is.

I've hinted at it. I've posted a few vague pictures. I even designed a t-shirt for the shop! But renovations were still going underway at that point, and despite my itchy fingers desperately seeking to post about the shop, I had to resist until it was officially open.
And yeah, it was totally worth the wait.

Back in March when Jason first told me about the new shop, I got excited. But it was that vague kind of excitement where you don't really know what you're getting excited about, just that the person talking to you has some awesome ideas and is actually going to follow through on them. I had no idea what to expect, really, except that the shop colors were going to be gray, teal, and purple.
That drastically changed in July when the real work started in the space formerly known as Boston Bicycle. And as damask was painted onto the walls, new cabinets build, chandeliers installed [possibly my favorite part of the shop], and a fainting chair assembled, my constant exclamations of "oh my God, this is AWESOME!" started sounding almost lame.

Because honestly, it's such an understatement. "Awesome" doesn't do justice to a shop that's clearly been well thought out, and executed with even more care. Stocked with cassette and Gage & Desoto t-shirts [I'm not biased, I promise], vintage jerseys, narifuri bags [possibly the only place you can get these babies in Boston], Phil Wood deliciousness, and Campy peanut butter wrenches, Superb is living up to its name. Add to that a bike inventory that is limited to steel frames [geared and otherwise] and you have a concept shop that has really good taste.

But that doesn't mean that it's inaccessible. Like its brainparent, Jason, Superb is - while almost intimidatingly hip - quietly confident, courteous, and perhaps most importantly [for a bike shop], non-judgmental. Everything from hybrids to track frames walk through the door; drawn to the velodrome display window or just to get a flat fix. And on one recent visit to Superb, a customer paused before heading out with a properly inflated tire:
"You guys did a little rearranging, huh?"
We all blinked. Yeah, you could say that.

scorching hot surprises

Endless summer.
It's already August but I'm trying to keep it endless. Grasping on to the last hot, sticky days of summer; simultaenously hating the humidly drenching heat but addicted to the feel of the sun pushing its rays onto my bare shoulders. And just when the clear days are no longer being so coy, slipping away into rainy weeks, it seems like the crush that is summer might just be disappearing.
Even if you know, deep down, that it's endless, that compensating something stirs, and you find yourself thinking about all the promises of fall: crisp apples and cooler rides, cyclocross and embrocation. And for me, a less sweaty season for a Rapha scarf.
My mistake. I should have said "Rapha scarves."

Back when the weather was still on a drier side of gooey, over breakfast, I heard a hint of a new Rapha scarf design. Accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile that would have bothered me if it didn't have that effect of eliciting smiles in response, it pulled at my curiosity. No details were given, but it stuck in my mind, the Rapha fanboy in me waiting to pounce [or at least ogle] when it was revealed.
A week or so ago, it did. And then a few days ago, it arrived in a familiar slim package, a neat little surprise wrapped in pink tissue paper. Unexpected and out of the blue, it was the kind of surprise that elicits no screaming or squealing; the kind that, instead, has you both smiling and gaping, exhaling short bursts of breath in an attempt to form words. The really happy kind of surprise.

Because this scarf is absolutely delicious. As delicious as the original, its intricacy is more simple than busy. The chains, spokes, cranks, chainrings, and hubs melting into a delicate paisley that retains its elegance, despite its striking similarity to the ubiquitous black cotton bandanas that populate the fixster scene. Draping it around my neck in an apartment that felt more like a sauna than a habitable home, goofy smile plastered on my sweaty face, I couldn't wait for fall.

But please. Do you think I could wait even a few days to wear this? Forgive me, though, because it's scorching hot out. Which means I'm improvising just a tiny bit.
Touching the slinky silk with my fingers, I initially felt too guilty to wrap it around a salty neck. Instead I tossed it around a belt loop in my shorts, keeping my neck free to breathe but repping Rapha. The more sophisticated can tie it around the handle of a handbag - the royal Hermes-esque treatment bestowed on scarves that women cannot help showing off.

Never fear, though, I'm a traditionalist at heart. Unable to resist, even in the dense heat, I opted for something looser than the snug fit of a properly tied Rapha scarf. Deceptively bandana-like, it's more than a cut above. And let me tell you, even half-dressed, this scarf is hot.

The girl in me insisted on trying it at an angle, too, the corner pointing not down but a little to the side. Vanity insisted I include a face shot to show that sometimes, I don't look nearly as tired as I do on the Rapha blog. Or, at least I don't think I do when I have a certain silky black scarf around my neck.
So there you have it: the new Rapha scarf. And while this is a peek into [a Rapha] fall, there's still reason to cling to summer Rapha Scarf Fridays. Because it's endless; full of thick slices of juicy watermelon, bike rides, and favorite friends.
Endless, awesome, amazing summer.
[I've been told someone else might be joining me for this week's Rapha Scarf Friday, too. How awesome is that?]

kept

Like most women, in my laziest moments, I've considered it. The concept - at least in the abstract - doesn't sound so bad, and as long as you perform your end of the bargain, there are clearly some tangible rewards to be gained. And it's not like you're chained, unwillingly, to something you never agreed to. The whole concept revolves around acceptance and performance.
I am, of course, referring to being a kept woman.
In actuality - my latent cougar status aside - I could probably never do it [and that's not because of any record of poor performance]. Mostly pouring money into clothes, shoes, bags, and bling are part of a past life that just doesn't interest me.

Well, as long as said clothes, shoes, bags, and bling are not bike-able. I'll pass up the vintage Dior for denim shorts I can bike in and a cassette shirt, Anna Sui pumps for Sidis, Loew bag for the Ortlieb, and Vivienne Westwood earrings for a bike helmet. All signs that I should probably seek immediate help for my blatant obsession. All signs that I'm totally in love with bicycles.
And that's sort of the real reason I could never be a kept woman; in predictable cougar [cub] fashion, I've fallen desperately in love with two very young things. And for now, I'm the one doing the keeping.

Being poor and broke, you might wonder how I manage. It's been no joyride, but somehow I'm cutting enough corners to make ends meet. My loves might be demanding, but I know they're both worth it. Every single penny.
And they've cost me quite a few thousands of pennies, my bikes. From new freewheels to bottom brackets to bar tape to pedals, both the Dolan and Bianchi are bleeding me dry. I'm fully aware of this slow financial death, but instead of maybe streamlining my purchases to the one bike I'm riding on the street, I'm cutting fresh wounds into my bank account, almost relishing in the resulting pain [and hunger]. Because those purchases are making the bikes smoother, lighter, or just harder to pedal. And that makes me love them that much more.

But I'm fickle. So when Andy mentioned the possibility of purchasing an IF, I momentarily forgot about the two ponies already in my stable. I feigned hesitation while my mind raced, imagining paint schemes and matching bar tape and saddles. I attempted to laugh off the suggestion while imagining what tires I'd get. I actually considered it, before trying to forget about it, then thought about it again. It's true. I'd die for an IF.
I'm fully aware of that. But sliding through afternoon NYC streets, scooting around trucks and taxis, my chain rasped noisily and I kicked myself for forgetting to grab some chain lube at the shop. And pushing the pedals a tiny bit harder, I realized that I liked my new gearing a lot; which means that the Dolan needs another cog or two. Those thoughts expanded into lists of bike parts and tools, saddles, new bar tape, and winter tires, before I finally admitted it to myself. I can hardly keep up with the demands of two bikes...how could I even think of dealing with three?

Besides, the high cost of maintenance of both of my existing bikes is probably a mixed blessing. Obsessive enough to have meltdowns when even one of my bikes doesn't function properly, pampering three would probably result in institutionalization. Plus that all-too-familiar routine of starvation as I stretch out an already quickly-thinning budget. Something at which even bike friends have rolled their eyes or shaken their heads.
"Dude, make sure you eat," they say.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just, you know," I usually respond, trying to dismiss the subject entirely with the most inarticulate, vague answer I can think of, too embarrassed to actually complete the sentence.
But I'm sure you'll understand: I'm just, you know, in love.

mani-pedi pro

When I first got Embrocation Cycling Journal volume 2, the first page I incidentally turned to was "The Art of the Bike Wash" by Radio Freddy. On the pages following the piece were pictures and two sentences:
"A clean machine is a PRO machine. Keep it PRO, keep it clean."
Sometimes I wish I'd never read that. Those words consistently come flooding back whenever I glance at my bike. But I'm really good at denial, so it wasn't until Jason pointed out that my rear tire was the "grayest white tire [he'd] ever seen," that I knew I had to do something.

But scrubbing my rims really did nothing but smear the brake dust everywhere, and while black tires would hide such nonsense, white [PRO] tires are much less forgiving. So when I made the ridiculously amateur move of rolling over gum, I also simultaenously found a way to whiten those strips of rubber.
I'm not going to go into detail here, but during one extremely embarrassing point in my life, I made out with a boy only to get his chewing gum all over my back. This taught me two things: 1. hook-ups are rarely worth the trouble, and 2. nail polish remover will always be my default go-to harsh chemical of choice.

So while Radio Freddy warns against using harsh chemicals, this is rubber we're talking about, not a Ti frame, so I went at the gum plastered on my tire with a cottonball soaked in nail polish remover. It did the trick, and then some. Because the tire ended up whiter.
And of course, more PRO. And with a trip to NYC planned, the sun finally shining, and a tire that looks more black than gray, I finally pulled on some gloves and gave my rear tire the same treatment [the gloves aren't really necessary unless you have nail polish on and you don't want to screw up your manicure]. I'm sure someone's going to tell me I just did the worst thing I could do to my tires, but clean tires are PRO tires. Even if that means I'm going to flat on the way downtown today.

Plus, unlike the worthless wtf-how-did-your-gum-get-all-over-my-fucking-back hook-up, at least this use of nail polish remover is going to end up in something positive. Well, for my bike. Unfortunately, I can't say I look nearly as PRO. Good thing there's a salon next to NYC Velo. Which means friends, espresso, a couch, bicycles, and a decent mani-pedi are within 20 ft of each other.
What more could a cyclist ask for?

pimp pampering

It's one of those prerequisites to life. One of those experiences that everyone goes through and hopefully comes out a better person for it. Kind of like how you should date a total asshole at some point in your life. It's not something you're going to enjoy, but you'll learn a thing or two, ponder it for a few days, then mature and grow as a result.
It's never not disappointing, though. Sometimes it's sort of heartbreaking, really. Because when you've been crushing on someone for so long, hyping them up in your head, and you finally get drunk brave enough to lock lips...the realization that the crush cannot, for the life of them, decently make out, will always break your heart a little.
I mean, maybe the panic and desire to escape hits first ["oh, um, well...goodnight!"]. But afterwards, you're left weighing if the crush is cute enough to really merit make out sessions that are more akin to your dog attacking the ice cream smeared on your face rather than the sultry lip tangling you previously imagined.

That heavy feeling of resignation is kind of what the past few days have been like. After a weekend and then some of NACCC, things have been starkly normal and incredibly mundane. Sure, the sun's shining out and it's scorching hot; perfect weather for some crazy rides. Instead I have to force myself to get on the rollers before spending too much time putzing around my apartment, half-heartedly looking around for someone something to do.
Meanwhile my chain sounds like a two-pack-a-day smoker, my gearing is a bit spinny, and I have no idea where my No. 4 hex wrench is. Awesome.
But like the feeling of utter guilt and self-disgust after a night of binging on ice cream, chocolate, and peanut butter filled pretzels post-break-up, I knew I had to get my shit together while the summer was still extant. And pampering is always a great way to get over something less-than-perfect-and-bordering-on-downright-disappointment. So it was off to a place I can comfortably go to without perfectly tweezed eyebrows, bombshell hair, or even a slightly coordinated outfit: IBC.
And hey, I left feeling pimp.

My seat raised just a tiny bit, my gearing changed a little bit, and my bottom bracket changed a lot a bit, the Bianchi now rides like omg-holy-shit-i-can't-believe-it's-not-buttah. Which has the obvious effect of not only making me want to go on rides, but had me smugly cruising down Beacon, without a hand on the bars.

And with still-mostly-pristinely white Vans to complement the mostly-white bartape, white pedals, and white toe straps, I even felt a little pro[seur]. Excitement going to my head, I even did two sessions on the rollers yesterday, the pro high only fading when - yet again - sweat poured into my eye, leaving me nearly skidding to a stop, one eye squeezed shut, trying to mentally deal with the pain while trying to figure out how to get off my bike in one piece.
Yeah, I got a long way to go. But hopefully I'll [at least] look good doing it.

clandestine chandeliers

Sharing is caring, I know. But sometimes, I'm tempted to keep certain things to myself. Like those gems of whatever that you discover, and then hide away, at least for a little while, while you weigh who you'll let in on your little secret, and in what order.
The irony being that I don't really consider myself good at keeping secrets. Especially when they're good secrets.
Like the addicting soul of Eli Paperboy Reed & The True Loves that's been streaming out of my speakers for the past few days [not clicking on those links is your loss, so I'm not even going to demand you check them out]. Sure they've been around for a while...but with music like this coming from homey little Boston, and the NACCCs starting today, I feel just a little bit obligated to share this little gem.
And there's something else, too. And it's called Superb.

Conceived by Jason, it's the stunningly hip extension of Cambridge Bicycle's track bike boutique. The website went live earlier this summer, but it's the space that I want to talk about. The plans for it are unbelievable, and I've had the good fortune of peeking into the space [formerly that of Boston Bicycle] every few weeks and watching the whirlwind transformation. Gold and teal ceilings, custom damask, plans for a display that will blow your mind, and chandeliers.
I'll let you in on another secret, too. Jason was one of the first to know about cassette before her official launch, and when I dragged M1 to the space a few weeks back, it ended in a few iced americanos...and an idea.

A collaboration t-shirt between Superb and cassette, the idea was sketched out within 24 hours of that meeting, delivered to M1 and the concept finalized between 2 to 3am on a Sunday night and the hour before I boarded a bus back to Boston on Monday morning. The shirts were printed, cured, and mailed within 48 hours [did I mention we work fast?]. And just in time, too. Because with couriers from all across North America flooding the city, Superb is a destination spot, and then some.
Which is probably why I can't keep the fact that it's amazing and going to be totally awesome a secret. All exacerbated by the fact that late Tuesday night, M1 sent me an iphone shot of a test Superb shirt. I nearly screamed in excitement before reaching for the phone, the only words I could form being "dude...dude...that shirt...oh my god..."

"Yeah," he replied, "I want to sort of steal one."
And there you have it. Proof that it's a good one. And therefore a secret I am incapable of keeping. Want one? Stop by Superb...and make sure you say hi, too!
[And yes, it's Rapha Scarf Friday again...]