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.

high off handlebars

I've always been skeptical of out of body experiences and the people that "experience" them. I remember, back in high school, a girl once told me how she got so high [off weed] that she felt like she had become the glass of water on her desk.
Somehow I restrained myself from telling her that she was fucking insane. Or just incredibly dramatic. Because while I've been fucked up enough to stare intently into a glass of water for about 5 minutes, I've never actually become one.
But yesterday, I sort of came close to an out of body experience. Or, I understood how weird events can sort of make one part of your brain pause and pose a logical question ["what the fuck am I doing?"] while the other part of your brain is like "holy shit, this is awesome!"
You'll laugh, but it's because I rode no-handed for more than 2 seconds yesterday.

Cursed with the ability to knock down glasses, spill any open containers, fall out of my bed, and crash while not even moving on my bike, balancing on two wheels takes a lot of effort. Add five crashes and hideously scarred up knees to show for it, and I'm not so keen on taking both hands off the handlebars unless at least one foot is firmly planted on solid ground. This results in overcompensation on my part; when friends ride no handed, I'll stubbornly stay in my drops, pretending as if I prefer that position, anyway.
But time on the rollers on a track bike makes you learn how to stay motionless while pedaling and gives you a new appreciation for how to use those hips to control the bike. And bored enough on my ride yesterday to throw caution to the wind, I tried it. And stared. And blinked. Because I was pedaling but there were these empty handlebars in front of me.
It was the weirdest thing. But so cool! I kept trying it, regardless of the fact that I was riding down Beacon and there were actually cars on the road. And like staring into that glass of water back in college, it gave me a strange sort of high.

Hours later, I even found myself staring into a glass of [the best] iced coffee [in Boston] at Cafe Fixe. While actually taking time to read a book for pleasure - something I haven't done in I-can't-remember-how-long. The irony being that the book ["Under the Banner of Heaven" by Jon Krakauer] is about Mormon fundamentalists. Which means it's a total fucking trip.
Of course, for every high, there's that sobering up period. So don't be surprised if I crash spectacularly today, somewhere along Beacon or Comm Ave. Here's to hoping it's more like a weed high though, and that the worst thing I'll do is end up eating 20 cookies, a bag of pretzels, and passing out on my floor.
Which would be a good thing. Because with NACCC starting tomorrow, I'd like to keep my injuries confined to those acquired on a bicycle.

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?

kinky or kissena

Call me a creature of habit [or just lazy], but I tend to get stuck in the same mundane routine. Getting up at the same time every morning, going through the same motions at work, doing the same rides. Ironically I sort of like it when someone will pull me out of my rut, give me something to do, and unleash me on something new. Even if it totally messes up that same comfortable daily song and dance.
Especially when it comes in the form of a declaratory statement accompanied with crossed arms, from the mouth of a person who can actually be a little scary if you piss him off enough. So when the words Kissena, track, and Dolan were uttered in the same sentence...I may have uttered my habitual "yeah, but..." but I knew M1 had a point.

Because quite honestly, riding track bikes on the street is sort of like, well, anal sex. It looks hot and kinky, and the concept behind it is forbiddingly tempting: the skill involved in being able to ride a rigid, aggressively stiff bike that was made to only go fast and turn left on city streets is really fucking pimp. Too bad in actuality, it's actually pretty uncomfortable and slightly painful.
But you try it because of all the hype. And then you try it again after you sort of pop your cherry, hoping it's going to be somewhat enjoyable. But then you end up running into the safe harbor that is straight up Vanilla sex. Or just your beater/commuter/road bike/hybrid/whatever. You know, something that was actually made for the road.

That's not to say that people who can ride track bikes on the street aren't hot shit. Just that I'm not that kinky. Kind of like how I'm fully comfortable with only hooking up on floors and beds, as opposed to public beaches and cathedrals. So heeding M1's advice, I'm going to put that Dolan where it belongs, and not sweat the boring factor that might come from only riding it on a track.

Judge at will. But I have enough sweat pouring out of my pores these past few days, sprinting in intervals on rollers as I blast pop or country or whatever so-bad-it's-good playlist I have going on, to really worry about what scensters might be thinking. Besides, I'm getting faster, pedaling in more efficient circles and at least whipping a few things with gears up the hills.
It might be sticky-sweaty-hot outside, and thus perfect weather for rides to Concord, Dover, or just a park for a picnic. But I'm sort of dreaming of late fall, when I'll have the window wide open, a kitchen timer [hopefully] set for an hour, gritting my teeth in agony, churning pink cranks as fast as my short legs possibly can.

pins and needles

Despite all the pins and needles scattered around my desk and floor, it's my knee that's feeling it today.
But it was so worth it.
Yesterday was gorgeously beautiful; a clear summer day with radiant blue skies and the kinds of clouds you want to chase on a bicycle. Summer had arrived in Boston at last. And that kind of weather necessitates a post-work bike ride, even if you've been battling the urge to pass out at your desk since 3.00pm.

And what perfect timing, too. Projects have entered that lull in the storm where waiting becomes the primary task. Restless waiting. The kind that just seems to take longer when you've been cooped inside for extended periods of time. Besides, one look at my desk and it's obvious that I've been doing too much of one thing and not enough of another.
I love Rapha [clearly] and le Tour, but watching, looking, seeing others ride had me itching to get back on the bike. And yesterday, for the first time in weeks, I rolled around slow and happy, with only dinner and a crumpled shirt in need of ironing waiting at home. No five hour stretches of eye-searing, temple-hammering work, post-real work. No to do list that never got completely checked off. No stressful mess of hats that had to be completed by whatever date.

Not that I don't enjoy that kind of work. I'm a workaholic, after all. Just that sometimes, when I manage to give in to that small tiny voice that tells me to relax a little bit, I need my rides to be long stretches of mental numbness concerning the uncertain future. Just me and my bicycle, here, now, in the present.
A friend - a runner who sometimes cycles - complained to me the other day about how long it took to go on rides.
"It takes hours. I can just go and do an hour of running."
True. But that's what I love about cycling. Hours and hours of solitary quality time with some steel/aluminum/carbon fiber tubing. The ability to get away from it all. The inexplicable feeling of getting lost but forgetting all about going home because this grassy field you've just discovered is fucking awesome.
I need to do more of that. A lot more.
Now if only this knee will hold up.

sunny sailing

I never really understood the obsession with protein until my hot cousin married a yachtsman.
Tall and ruggedly handsome, sporting the perpetual tan, I was impressed. He also happened to be a super nice guy, and we shot the shit about the Louis Vuitton America’s Cup, the then-new yacht used by Team New Zealand that ended up breaking into pieces, and what it feels like to be on a yacht that is fucking flying. On water.
He also told me how, when he was racing full-time, he was eating about 10,000 calories a day.
Back then, I was all wtf. But following and befriending a few real cyclists, it makes sense, and consuming that many calories doesn’t seem so much like a death sentence to skinny. Well, that and the fact that my cousin’s husband had a regimented diet balanced out for his sailing skills.

I don’t have a nutritionist, unfortunately, so I’m left to my own devices of “don’t eat too much processed shit” and “eat balanced meals.” Which translates to “eat stuff that won’t break the bank.” Too bad when you start riding a lot more, you tend to get hungry. Like all the time.
So in comes protein [to supplement my massive caffeine consumption], which is supposed to keep you fuller longer and help build muscle and all that goodness. But being a former vegetarian, I'm a tiny bit wary of animal products. Still, when a friend comes up to visit his parents who own some free range chickens, and hands you half a dozen fresh eggs, dinner for the next week is going to be omelettes and sunny side ups and scrambled eggs.

Cracking open the first one in the pan a few nights ago, I was tempted to bike down to M1’s parents’ house. Or at least steal a chicken. These things are huge. These eggs are to grocery store eggs what Chris Hoy would be to a sad anorexic hipster. And as delicious [looking] in comparison.
I've actually been hoarding a few; making that half dozen stretch. And as odd as it may sound, this is dinner food. I somehow still can't manage to eat much before a ride. Call it a digestive system used to a day that starts at school or the office, but eating anything before 9am [even with a ride planned] takes a conscious effort. Although, of course, that could just be a sign that I need to do more riding.
At least these delicious protein bombs have me pedaling faster on the way home...