guiding the way to cycle salon uehara

“Are you a good guide?”
The question came after I casually mentioned a friend should visit me in Tokyo. I automatically replied that I was, going so far as to say, “yeah, of course.” Upon five seconds of reflection, I realized that I am, in fact, quite the opposite. I backtracked a little, gave about a thousand qualifying statements, and finished off with something lame along the lines of, “well, I’ll be a good guide by the time you visit.” Small wonder that particular friend has yet to make any plans to come to Tokyo.
But ignorant of my ignorance, Kyle dropped me an email a few months ago informing me of a visit. A definite one. And with no time to actually become a “good guide,” I compiled a list of places that I’d been meaning to check out but never got around to, put my faith in Google Maps, and told Kyle that yes, yes, I could take him on a tour of Tokyo.
He quickly found out that other than my usual coffee haunts, I am terrible at taking people around my own hometown. And secretly aware of my lack of direction and knowledge, I attempted to make up for it by directing Kyle first to a bike shop whose website I had stumbled on months ago. A uniquely Japanese one with piles and piles of vintage parts. I decided I would alter/completely overhaul the planned itinerary depending on Kyle’s reaction to Cycle Salon Uehara.

Given that I was involved in the process, we got as turned as the map we passed back and forth between us before finally finding our way to this hidden collector’s gem of a bike shop. Nestled in among lunch spots colorfully advertising deals of the day was a smart, old-fashioned store front, a red heart-shaped sign contrasting sharply against the worn wooden doors. Two cyclists – one road, one track – heads down and suffering, adorned the simple door. We had arrived.

It’s the kind of place where the owner lives upstairs and the sliding door makes that satisfying dry rolling sound [with a slightly squeak] that you thought was near obsolete in modern day Tokyo. And typically, it’s also the kind of place where you roll back the door and call out a hello, which rouses feet to descend a close staircase. A small, elderly man peered at us around the corner, as we stepped inside, and gaped.

Primarily selling custom bikes [made domestically], the shop is cramped and tight. But the display of derailleurs, brakes, quill stems, pedals, hubs, seatposts, and other components is simply amazing. 90% of the display is part of a personal collection [and thus not for sale], but the history in that small space is overwhelming. Pictures hang near the ceiling, pressed against the wall where frames and wheels aren’t likely to scratch them, and their dated appearance reinforced my naiveté. There’s a lot packed into that shop, and I realized I couldn’t even pretend to comprehend half of what I saw there.

We gasped and pointed as the owner looked on. I managed to ask some simple questions as he kindly nodded his thanks at our combined astonishment. After going shutter happy on every bike-related item in the shop, we thanked the owner for his time and walked out of that sliding wooden door, back into the busy street quickly filling with office workers hunting down their respective lunches. Back to 2011 and reality.
“Wow,” Kyle said. I could only wholeheartedly agree.
[Better pictures here.]

2011 christmas gift guide for the female cyclist

Less than a week until Christmas, and derailed by the shock of Kim Jong-Il's death, I'll understand if you haven't bought that definitive, perfect present for the female cyclist in your life. Be it wife, girlfriend, mother, sister, or friend, here's a quick list [you're extra lucky if you're in Japan for some of these items] for the last-minute shopper...
If she trains through the winter...
Pearl Izumi Battery-Operated Heated Gloves and Booties

Available in Japan, these battery-operated lobster-claw gloves and booties are Pearl Izumi's latest winter product. Heating panels keep fingers and toes cozy enough and there are three levels of warmth you can choose from. Gloves and booties cost 15,540yen apiece, but if your giftee rides hard through the winter, these just might be worth the hefty price tag.
Craft Zero Extreme Women's Base Layer

Gifted a Craft base layer last Christmas, I am not embarrassed to say that I lived in it for the duration of an extremely cold, Boston winter [is that redundant?]. The new Zero Extreme looks even warmer and more comfortable. Being machine-washable doesn't hurt either...because who wants to hand-wash yet another item after a cold ride?
Sufferfest Training Video

Because sometimes a girl just wants to stay inside. And do intervals. You know?
If she likes to ride in the city...
Nantucket Bike Baskets

Gorgeous and adorable, I would happily buy a city bike just to get one of these baskets. I'm partial to the Jetties collection, which allows you to release the basket [which comes with a handle!] and stroll through a farmer's market in style.
Outlier 6-foot Scarf

What casual bike outfit is complete without an Outlier item? The long, merino scarf by the masterminds behind this awesome brand combines light-weight comfort and colors to lust after. One look and you'll want one in each color for yourself, too.
Pearl Izumi City Ride Winter Gloves

When I first saw these gloves, I imagined them curled around mustache bars on a stately yet simple city bike. Casual enough to be deceptive, but functional enough to keep digits comfortable, I wish I had had these instead of my leather, cashmere-lined gloves which I half destroyed by using them as riding gloves last winter. [Available only in Japan.]
And if you're looking to splurge...
Garmin Edge 800 GPS

It seems everyone has one of these, and for good reason. If the cyclist in your life loves to discover new rides but has a tendency to get woefully lost, this just may be the ultimate gift. With a waterproof screen and the ability to conjure up a phantom rider to ride at your "goal parameters," the only thing this doesn't do is tell you to stop for good coffee. But you already knew how to do that, right?
Have a great Christmas, guys!

sweet onekan

A day or two ago, my mother pointed out several tall, skinny trees, their bushy branches peeking up over walls enclosing neighboring yards. Nestled amongst the sturdy green leaves were clusters of small, orange, waxy flowers, almost hidden away, as if self-conscious of their own bland appearance.
“They’re called kinmokusei [Sweet Osmanthus],” my mother said, “those flowers don’t smell like anything up close, but from far away, their fragrance is intense. See? Do you smell that?”
I looked up and sniffed, but didn’t sense much other than my slightly dehydrated throat.
“Uh…no…?”
My mother looked at me as if resigned to the fact that I could actually disappoint her further. “I can’t believe you can’t smell that.”

A ready excuse – that my throat was still chafed from my ride on Sunday – came to mind but hopes of absolving myself dissolved as I realized Sunday was more than 48 hours ago. I tried instead an expression of hopeful expectation mixed with an apologetic one that fell predictably flat as my mother sighed and turned away. I looked for more Sweet Osmanthus trees, resolving to try harder.
To my defense, Sunday’s ride along the infamous Onekan had left me with a slightly sore throat, the product of inhaling too many fumes along the way. My first ride since flying back to Tokyo, I’d successfully persuaded Deej to guide the way while soft-pedaling along to my struggling legs. The opportunity to ride also, quite conveniently, had the effect of forcing myself to attend to my IF, which sat sad and stripped of several crucial parts. Like a neglected child, it lingered silently, waiting eagerly for my withheld love.

It’s not that I intended to put up my road bike for the rest of the year [this is Tokyo, after all, where even the winters are extremely mild at best], or that I was too busy to ride. A half-dismantled bike, however, was easier on the eyes when I spent most of my days staring at the same empty job sites, and giving long, thoughtful hours to my relative ineptitude. A smear of dirt on the underside of my saddle reminded me of New Hampshire, Ride.Studio.Cafe., and a fridge filled with little more than containers of condiments, where I had left a mostly-full, screw-top bottle of Trader Joe’s white wine. What I wouldn’t give, I thought to myself, to be sucking down that amber-colored liquid right now – straight from the bottle – even if “taste” seemed an afterthought to whatever lower grade vineyard bottled the thing.
I was, in effect, “thinking about my life,” as Irvine Welsh once aptly put it in The Acid House, “and that is always a very, very stupid thing to do.” Realizing the futility of walking the same desperate mental circles, I pulled my head out of my own ass for five seconds to beg Deej for a ride. It worked. We planned on hitting the rollers along Onekan early Sunday morning.

A relatively short loop, it’s a quick out-[to-a-Starbucks]-and-back type route, conveniently located just across the Tama River. When Deej told me it was mostly rollers, I expected something more like Boston routes, where there are flat sections punctuated by small hills. The Onekan, though, feels more like riding a series of hills until the last mile or so, where the combination of no lights and flatter ground make ideal conditions for a dead-on TT sprint. The hills won’t kill you, but they’re challenging enough when, like me, you’ve gone weak in the legs and soft in the middle.

And given that a veteran Tokyo cyclist who loves to climb was guiding the way, we inevitably hit a back road off the Onekan. The grade surprisingly steep, we picked our way up the road on the sidewalk while cars aggressively sped past us. The sidewalk less than two feet wide, crowded on either side by intrusive telephone poles and hedges, I realized that spinning in the saddle wasn’t a prudent option as the uneven asphalt – punctuated by tree roots – made my butt bounce against my saddle. I stood up and spun, almost got hit by a car when we were back on the road, then slogged the rest of the way back to the Onekan.
Our flavor of Paris-Roubaix behind us for the day, and never one to chase or race, I established a steady pace on the way back, letting other cyclists slip past undisturbed. But the Onekan presents enough competitive opportunity to keep things interesting, and when a slight woman on a carbon fiber whatever, in Assos shorts and Lightweight wheels, bringing up the tail end of a paceline spun by, a prickle of ambition coursed through me. By the time we drew up behind her, I was secretly frothing at the mouth to go, my wheel dangerously overlapping Deej’s. He looked behind at me, I nodded, and we pushed up, over, and past. I felt briefly like an asshole, but that didn’t keep me from patting myself on the back just a little.

I remembered that cathartic surge forwards again when I finally smelled those Sweet Osmanthus flowers. My mother was right, they’re hard to miss; their thick scent permeating the air like the heavy perfume of an overbearing female relative. I looked up at those ordinary flowers – one might go so far as to call them unattractive – and found again that lost realization that appearances never quite matter. That that huge piece of paper I got from Boston College Law – however impressive with Latin words all over it – probably shouldn’t saddle me with daily existential crises.
And that although I may be the only person in Tokyo with black Sidis, that I might have a small, tiny measure of something in my legs, too.