faking it

Fake til you make it. That's what some reliable news sources [read: Cosmo] have taught me.
That might be why I only wear spandex and Sidis nowadays and will at least try to look the part of serious cyclist. Let's try to forget that I'm currently - and probably will continue to be - incredibly slow. Those are small details that aren't really relevant to this discussion.
Given my recent acquisition of Sidis [seriously one of the most comfortable, efficient things I've ever had attached to my feet], it probably doesn't come as a surprise that I'm turning the "faking it" up a notch. I even have a jersey now [okay, that was almost a joke purchase but I love to rock it]. Now if only my Bianchi looked less like a commuter beater bike and more...racy.
Of course - this being me - I mean that in both senses of the word. The Bianchi being my official training bike [I am currently shamelessly loving that freewheel], I need it to be fast and, you know, as sexy as possible. And while the pink + dark green theme was cool in that super fixster look-I'm-so-hipster-I-can-look-good-in-colors-that-don't-really-match kind of way, watermelons don't really move quickly. They sort of just roll sluggishly.

So it was time for a change. Chris had been pointing out how faded out and gross my formerly pink bartape was for about the past month [yeah, I have amazing friends]. I tested the waters with the purchase and application of a pair of Vittoria Randonneurs. They looked fast. I plunged into the "racy" pool with Pro white bartape last night.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Me? Fast? It's more than a vain hope. It's more like a delusion. Still, I've heard, from reliable sources, that while training endlessly will make you fast, white bartape makes you go even faster. Okay, yeah, that presumes you enjoy training for hours on a trainer, Powercranks, and that inexplicable pain of drinking protein shakes. I'm obviously not there yet...but I'm working on it.

In the meantime, the goal is to at least look like I enjoy all of the above. I'm already practicing chugging protein shakes with a smile. Now if only my legs can keep up...
[Oh, and I'm expecting full reports on Battenkill!]

rolling uncontrollably

I'm a great fan of "to do" lists. I installed Post-it software on my computer specifically for this purpose. Well, specifically so I can type out my to do lists days in advance, and then put the extremely satisfying "DONE" next to each task.
I checked off my last "to do" task - outlining my tax law course - with shaky, sweaty hands last night. I think my feet were drenched in steamy sweat too. My right forearm was twitchy from overexertion. I am really full of terrible ideas.
All because of a simple entry on my "to do" list: "rollers." I escaped the library early yesterday to meet a friend who was selling his rollers on the cheap. With only two single-speeds, I was advised that trainers wouldn't be nearly as effective, so when the rollers went up for sale, I immediately called dibs. The first person claiming them dropped out - lucky[?] for me.
As I planted "DONE" next to tasks already completed late last night, I saw the "rollers" entry. For me, that originally meant "get cash, be at home to pick them up." That somehow turned into "well, let's try them out!"

This is sort of the time I kind of wish I had roommates to stop me from indulging my insanity. Against my better judgment, I set up the rollers in my hallway and propped my bike on top of it. And then I climbed on. That was the easy part. Now I had to actually get on my bike that was supported by this thing called air, and try to balance. I was half bracing myself against the wall, my hands flooding with nervous sweat as I attempted to push the pedals. Hunched over, clinging to my bars for dear life, I tried not to think about Mark's roommate, who managed to fly off his trainer into his TV, or Jones's friend who flew into his dorm room closet at 35mph.

I'll admit, my courage lasted me a scant 10 minutes on the rollers, and that includes trying to get on. I left it in the hallway though, right in front of my door. I'm hoping the guilt of seeing it when I walk into my apartment will serve as extra motivation. And hopefully it'll also stop my hands from constantly sweating every time I think about them. Because unless I can master those rollers, my fantasy of watching movies with bike friends who are all on rollers/trainers is going to stay just that...and that's just unacceptable.

paris-roubaix, boston-style

Always having been the less talented of my parents' two daughters, I was constantly presented with two choices: excel in something different or be content and find value in being, well, inferior. It's easier to be the latter...but my parents didn't raise me that way.
Unfortunately this can usually results in me doing things just to prove that I can do them. Like biking year-round in ridiculous temperatures. Or sort of training for a fixed century. Or deciding that doing a longer ride on a track bike I can barely ride with increased gearing would be a fantastic idea.
Which is exactly what I did yesterday. Planning out a simple 20 mile route, Pete and his extremely pale yet freshly shaven legs assured me that my jump in gear inches was fine, and that we could do 20 miles easy. I blindly believed him and failed to factor in the whole twitchy lightness that seems to be characteristics of a true track bike, as well as mostly unwrapped bars and gloves with no padding.

My hands and arms absorbed the shock of every crevice and bump we went over...and quite frankly, my ass didn't fare much better. I mentally told myself to toughen up and keep plowing through. Concentrating a little too much on actually planning out and holding a line [my 'cross bike lets me truck through anything and everything], we got lost and had to backtrack a few times. Spotting the river, we decided to ride down River Street in Waltham towards Watertown and Cambridge.
It was the worst road I've ever ridden on. About a mile in, Pete yelled that it was like riding the Paris-Roubaix...and it certainly was. His superior bike skills allowed him to deftly dodge obstacles while maintaining a constant speed. Already nervous about being perched on something that felt like air compared to my 'cross monster, I was a stressed mess. Brake with my legs, cautiously roll over uneven layers of asphalt, skitter around unexpected potholes, attempt to maintain enough speed not to piss off the drivers speeding by, try not to lose Pete. It was like that "don't step on the cracks in the sidewalk" game I used to play as a kid, except my teeth were clattering, I was developing carpal tunnel, and it was way more painful.

While half tempted to stop and take pictures, the desire to get to the end of this ass-beater of a road had us riding as fast as we could. The worst part? It didn't seem to end for a really, really, really long time. When we got back to civilization, normal Boston roads - despite all the cracks and potholes - felt like sliding on butter. The people milling about in Harvard Square looked at us oddly as I [finally] lurched into Cambridge. Maybe we let our guards down a little too much as an older model Volvo cut off Pete on Mass Ave without signaling, causing him to slam into it as he maneuvered between the curb and the car [he's okay, though]. The driver claimed her signal had "fallen off," which had us giggling on our way through Cambridge.

We inhaled bagels [sorry Eric] before heading home. I wasn't sure my legs and arms were still attached to me but Pete assures me that they were the last time he saw me. Normally, I wouldn't be adverse to go back and take pictures of River Street. Normally. Because unless you give me a full-suspension mountain bike, I'm not ever riding Boston's Paris-Roubaix, again.
Unless, of course, you challenge me to do it...

eat drink bike sleep

Oh, and study.
That's pretty much all I did yesterday. I fell into bed early on Saturday in anticipation for the Sunday morning ride, even though there was no route planned. And possibly no ride partner, Pete having texted me late Saturday night that he was up for the ride but was an "anarchist party." I figured he'll be a no show.
I woke up bright and early to a comment on my blog from Pete. Written well past 1am. Yeah, right, he's going to be ready by 8.30am, I thought. Screw it, I was going to do two 15 mile loops without stopping anyway [my first 30 miler - sad but true], Pete or no Pete. But a small chat box popped up in gmail around 7.45 - Mr. Pete Shelby himself, awake and willing to go on a ride after about 5 hours of sleep, even with work from noon to 6pm at CB. He picked up a Red Bull at the Store24 and we headed right into gusty winds towards hills and, for me, 30 miles of fixed [anticipated] agony.

We didn't stop [minus the few red lights we didn't blow through] until we had thrown down 14 or so miles, and we pedaled past an apparent fire in Brookline. There were about seven fire trucks, the road was blocked off by police cars, and ambulances also lined the street. I used it as an excuse to snap a few pictures, eat some offered gummi bears, hydrate, then slide my feet back into the clips to do 15+ more miles.

My toes numb by mile 20, I was seriously jealous of Pete's Sidis [I haven't set mine up yet]. My legs were sort of on autopilot halfway through the second loop, and only familiar landmarks and the desire not to be seen/labeled a lame quitter kept me pushing on the pedals. Well, that and good jokes - seemingly perfectly timed - which had me laughing to the point of not realizing that I was already halfway up a hill and that I just had to push a little more to crest the mofo.
My knees seemed to think 28 miles was quite enough as the last stretch home got slightly uncomfortable. That could be due to my sprint through the intersection in Washington Square, though; we never seem to make the light, except on Sundays. Sighting a green as we came down Beacon Street, I yelled ["It's Sunnnddayyyyy!!!"] and whooped as we burst through the light as it turned yellow. Gritting my teeth, sniffling while trying to breathe/pant, head down, slouched into my drops, we finished the ride in two hours and change. Less than 15mph; yeah, slow. Still, don't hate.
I proceeded to stretch, shower, stuff my face, and fall asleep on my books [missing polo!], but dreaming of pretty bikes, summer rides, and all things Rapha [Pete unzipped his jacket just enough as we said goodbye to reveal a baby blue Rapha jersey...yeah that whole "starving artist" front is totally just to get chicks].
Next time, we'll do it faster.
[Today's also my older sister's birthday - the only person who is capable of making me cry in sheer envy of her artistic talent, call me on all my bullshit, and the first person who taught me that what doesn't kill me will only make me stronger. Thanks, Kanako. Happy Birthday!]

translating shoes

Whenever my Mom tries to admonish me about not being [insert any adjective of your choosing, popular ones include: smart, stylish, intelligent, prepared] enough, I pull out a handy Japanese proverb:
"A frog's child is a frog, Mom, I'm only going to be as good as you and Dad."*
To which she will either sigh, disappointed, and claim I inherited most of my genes from my father, or furrow her brow and say:
"You aren't the hawk the kite gave birth to?"**
I am no hawk. This is clearly evidenced by my inherited [from my Mom] love of shoes. Back in the Time Before Bike [TBB], I had at least 20 pairs of shoes - boots, heels, stilettos, kitten heels, ballet flats, etc. - that I actually wore; several more pairs had to stay at home in Japan. This complicates things when I'm at home, because all three shoe closets are taken up by my Mom's shoes. Thank God we don't wear the same shoe size, or the bickering [and borrowing] would be neverending.

The obsession [also applicable to handbags], sort of faded after the purchase of my bike. I'm currently running three pairs of sneakers into the ground, and I haven't bought a pair of shoes in over a year [to my best friend's absolute horror]. Well, until about a week ago.
Because when the going gets tough, the tough naturally go shopping. And retail therapy is never sweeter when it's presented as a huge sale. And there's no better deal when you can get a pair of shoes you've been fantasizing about at less than half the retail price.

Yeah, I'm officially rocking a pair of Sidi's. The footwear of champions and everyone who likes to clip clop in public. I understand black shoes are only for domestiques, but due to the fact that I'm trying to work my way up to that status, I think it's only appropriate. I picked up the shoes last night [after deciding against SPD pedals, and going with straight road ones], and clopped around in them in my apartment, gleefully. It even motivated me to shave my legs, which I hadn't done in about...oh...three weeks [okay, bumping into Croth and his perfectly hairless legs the other day probably motivated that decision, too].

I have to admit, I'm sort of scared of trying them out. Friends at IBC assured me that getting out of clipless pedals is actually easier than toe clips:
Jeremy: Because when you're about to fall, you'll sort of naturally twist your foot.
Me: So I'll just land on my top tube instead of crashing and burning with the bike attached to me?
Marcus: At least you're not a guy.
Indeed.
* "Kaeru no ko wa kaeru" - Meaning that a child takes after her parents, and will grow up to be pretty much just like them. ** "Tombi ga taka wo unda" - Used in the rare situation where a child out-accomplishes her parents.

poseurcross

A friend once asked me why I didn't just switch my squealing, impossible to adjust cantilever brakes - the front refuses to STFU, so in retaliation, I refuse to use it - to center pull caliper ones.
"It's not like you're ever going to race 'cross," he said.
I stubbornly refused to switch them out though; and for once, I distinctly remember that decision being motivated by something other than my automatic reaction to being told that I can't do something ["Oh yeah? Watch me"]. Because even though I had no idea what cyclocross was when I bought my tractorino, once I found out, I've been secretly crushing on it since.
I mean, who can resist a cycling event that looks so hardcore. Not only does it involve biking through grass and mud, you have to run [up hills, even!], and then jump over stuff. It looks like pure masochism. It totally turns me on.
Unfortunately, I currently lack the balls to actually do it. But laziness and the need to go to the BC main campus sometimes fires up the cyclocrosser poseurcrosser in me. Because when the options are biking up a hill or taking the stairs with a bike over your shoulder, well, I made the obvious choice.

Okay, I admit, I didn't run up them. More like plodded at a steady pace while the undergrads snickered about the psycho girl hauling her bike up too many stairs. And those stairs were killer. But they still fuel daydreams of running up them in cycling shoes with friends, bikes over our shoulders, in preparation for an up-coming cross race. Only to descend them to do it all over again, thighs burning, heart and lungs about to burst, but still laughing.

It hasn't happened yet, but those agonizing cantilever brakes are a constant reminder. Through all its screaming - when I absolutely need to use it - my front brake keeps that dream alive. I'm definitely keeping my fingers crossed on this one.
No pun intended.
[My favorite underage bike mechanic is turning 21 today, too -- Happy Birthday Chris!!!]