ugg[h] season

It's Ugg season, again.
Remember those boots that became popular in, oh, 2002? Yeah apparently, they're still around, despite their highly unflattering, leg shortening and fattening qualities [unless you're over 5'10" and under 100lbs, of course]. Which inevitably gives rise to snarky jokes with my best friend:
"Is she wearing Uggs?"
"Yeah. Welcome to 2002."

I've never been one to jump on fashion trends that would make me look like the lovechild of a munchkin and a tree trunk. Still, that doesn't mean I'm capable of keeping up with what's hip and trendy [Rapha does that for me...juuuust kidding].
Because it sometimes takes snow to get me riding more.
Sunday afternoon's rain turned into snow as I realized that I couldn't avoid not going to the grocery store if I wanted more than cheese and ketchup for dinner. And battling the big, frosty flakes, I dragged the bike up and down hills that felt like mountains in jeans that were getting drenched with icy water.
I hate how winter makes me feel like Jabba the Hutt on a tricycle.
But despite my intense desire to be a better rider, I'm also a busy girl without a realistic concept of time. Which means that I'll tell myself that 6 hours of sleep is plenty to keep me going, only to end up face first on my yoga mat at 4pm, fast asleep, my head on top of an open casebook, highlighter still clutched in my right hand. Yesterday, though, I woke up 20 minutes later, completely disoriented [no drool, though], looked around at the piles of books in my room, and then got on my rollers.

I really should be reading cases and trying to figure out Section 316 of the Internal Revenue Code, but I'm trying to see how fast I can get my shoulders sweating instead.
It's weird, but when I'm pressed for time, some part of me insists that I spend more of it on my bike. And when it snows in mid-October, that's also enough to make me irrationally freak out and run to my rollers.
Irrational because I should be savoring the remaining warm-ish days. Yesterday was the perfect fall day - just cool enough with the sun shining brightly and innocently, as if the sky hadn't dumped snow all over me Sunday afternoon. Escaping school a bit on the early side, a small part of me whispered temptations to go to Dover, to putz around and find a park, to ride in lazy circles around this small New England city.

Instead, I read cases at a much faster clip than the I-totally-don't-want-to-be-doing-this-oh-who's-on-gchat?-wait-I-should-finish-this-reading pace, condensing the schoolwork into that narrow space between the power nap and dinner. And before stuffing my face, I spun on my track bike for a decent amount of time while distracting myself with "Kitchen Nightmares" [my new addiction].
Okay, I didn't finish all of my work, and went to bed too late to get up too early. Old habits die hard, sometimes, I guess. Still, do I at least get points for not wearing Uggs?

how i roll

Back when my mother was still deluding herself into thinking I had some musical promise, she would send me to weekly piano lessons. I don't actually remember being presented with the concept of "choice" in this decision. I was supposed to learn how to play piano. End of story.
I was maybe six or seven at the time. In the living room of my piano teacher, I would alternate between awkwardly trying to navigate the stretch of white and black keys and sitting in a chair, writing out the rhythm of whatever my teacher would play. And while regulated to invalid-child-with-epilepsy status, I absolutely could not sit still.

It was one of those days where I was supposed to write out rhythms when it happened. I was seated on a wooden chair but had tucked my legs underneath me so that I was perched on my shins. My toes stuck out of that narrow space between the seat of the chair and its back. I was fidgeting, and as I shifted in my seat, a heel got caught in the back of the chair. I panicked, pulled and struggled. The chair wobbled as I fought it, then fell back, me stuck to it, and the back of my head smashed against my piano teacher's glass coffee table.
She totally freaked out.
A few stitches later, I was fine. I actually remember wondering why we weren't just continuing the piano lesson.
Two decades later, I've come to terms with sitting for long stretches of time, but that doesn't mean I don't hate it. And a 12 hour school day means that while I'm not on my butt the whole time, by the time I get home, the only thing I want to do is eat something decent and be horizontal for an extended period of time [preferably for more than 6 hours].

But yesterday, I came home, peeled off restricting clothing, and hopped right back onto a bike. With the weather turning positively freezing and the heat turning my apartment into a sauna, unlike the true road warriors who are shunning the indoor trainer at all costs, I'm hiding inside, rolling happily. Ironically, the stacks of books smothering my desk and every flat surface in my apartment, along with the "to do" list that never ends, is pushing me into higher gears [literally]. The mental image of that adorable Phil Wood 12T cog helps, too.
So after a make-up class that ended at 7.15pm last night, nursing a headache from incomprehension of corporate taxation, starving, and exhausted, I rolled for a little bit. And despite the sweating, I realized that it doesn't burn so much on my increased gearing. I actually might be getting used to it.

I stretched properly for once afterwards, and because I like cylindrical things, even rolled out my IT bands with my new favorite toy - a giant foam roller. My legs felt happy, even if I couldn't wait to dive into bed a few hours later.
And in case you were wondering, I slept like a baby.

dovering in

I hate to admit it but I've reached that all too familiar impasse with my usual ride to Arlington. Like that feeling of slight disappointment mixed with guilt you feel when you're hanging out with a really nice person and you try to make a sarcastic joke and they respond with a small frown and the statement, "aww, that's not nice." So to avoid sounding evil and mean you shut the hell up but end up bored out of your mind because walking on eggshells is as socially pleasant as choking on a fork. And eventually you end up avoiding the friend - or in this case, the ride - because they just make you feel bad about yourself and how "not nice" you are.
Truly nice people tend to be extremely boring, but that's not the point here.
The point is that I needed something different. Something interesting that would stroke my ego a bit. Kind of like the gay bitchy queen friend that every girl really should have. And I found it this past weekend. In, of all places, Dover, MA.

The route I took was given to me by a Rapha Conti rider months ago, but slightly intimidated by it all, I sat on it for a while. Back then, I was still hopeful that the ride to Arlington could keep me interested; people always say how nice it is to ride out there. There was no way - I thought - that this ride and I wouldn't get along.
But my interest started to fizzle and fade, and when M1 offered to recon a new ride with me last weekend, I dove in.
Being immediately suspicious of the hype that tends to surround extremely charismatic people, I braced myself for a bit of disappointment. Cyclists in Boston always talk about Dover and how awesome it is to ride out there. But like attractive people with little inner content, maybe, I thought, it was a boring ride with pretty scenery. Maybe it'll only keep my attention for a few weekends, and it'll be back to sweating over rollers because the whole outdoor cycling thing just wasn't doing it for me.

For once, though, I was elated to be wrong. The thing about Dover is that it's actually interesting. A good mix of flat terrain broken up with the occasional hill or two, and streets that are to Boston asphalt what Belvedere is to the stuff that comes exclusively in plastic handles. It's the boy you're staying up too late talking to about how awesome Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go is, not the one you just sort of like to look at but can't talk to because he just doesn't get your jokes.

Don't get me wrong. That doesn't mean that the ride isn't absolutely stunning. It's gorgeous, and then some. The narrow road is surrounded by incredible skies, fields, and farms [we passed Chickering Farm with a sign that stated it was established in 1690!]. A beekeeper was tending to his buzzing workers as we slid by, and horses looked at us curiously. It was amazing.
And because a ride is never complete without some kind of sugar-laden something, we stopped by Abbott's in Needham for frozen custard. Deliciously cold and gooey, it was like frozen yogurt and ice cream had a love child and offered it up to my growling stomach. It hit the spot, and was just sweet enough to power us through the brief rain shower on the way back home.

If my Dover ride was a real person, I'd be swooning over its sheer perfection. Just my luck that it isn't, because I really hate to share.

labored breathing

Freshman year of college, my neighbor used to get it on with his girlfriend at the weirdest time of day. In the early afternoon hours, my room mate would point to the wall and we would hear labored grunting. From him. His girlfriend remained ominously silent.
It was sort of creepy. Too bad I make those same grunting noises, peppered with gasping sighs, when climbing hills on my preferred ride route. That plus all the sweating and the whole one gear thing and it's easy to see why I opt to suffer alone.
But when a best friend is in town - the kind that will not bat an eye at the sight of me pushing the pedals on the rollers at 7am and instead offer to make coffee - well, I'll make exceptions.

So for the first time in forever, I actually didn't sit in front of a computer or a book on Labor Day. I planted my ass on my Brooks instead and pedaled a little over 40 miles [the first time I've done over 30 in about two months...the shame, I know] with the kind of company that won't drop me.
And, of course, the kind of company I'm totally comfortable grunting and gasping in front of. Out of the saddle on the climb that tends to kill me, I was inevitably making those kinds of noises that are completely acceptable when you're torturing yourself alone but are slightly inappropriate when you're with company. And just when I was in no shape to tell him to fuck off:
"Wow. You're either having a really good time or a really bad time," M1 commented.

My retort ended in a laugh/cough combo as he literally pushed me - sputtering and gasping for him to cut it out because that was cheating - the last five feet of the climb. A few more hills, a dead sprint at the slow-for-anyone-but-me speed of 22mph, and we were at Arlington in record time. I was ready to pass the fuck out.

Famished but reluctant to let the beautifully perfect weather slip away, we made a quick detour to a place that didn't look like anything Boston or New York City. And winding our way around part of the Minute Man National Historic Park, I also managed to forget how dead tired I was.
Hours later, slowly savoring espresso bean ice cream from 3 Scoops, I realized that I had forgotten all about the grunting, too. Which is not only testament to the strength of my short-term memory, but also how I couldn't care less. At least not with the company I was with.
Because when I quoted the last line of Casablanca to M1 way back in May, I really meant it.

beating bikes

School's officially starting on Monday
I use the term "starting" loosely, because I've been going to school almost every day this week. Mostly to hunch over a computer, hand poised over my mouse, cite-checking and making sure things are in correct Bluebook form. At least I'm not alone, though. A journal mate occupying the desk next to mine turned to look out the window, saying:
"Man, it's such a nice day out today too...Well, judging from the walk from my car to the school."
He turned to me when I laughed in response, adding,
"At least you bike here; you get to enjoy being outside a little."

True, but for how much longer? With the prospect of bike rides limited mostly to my pathetic commute to school, and concerns of what exactly I could write about every single day, by the end of the day, I was feeling as crumpled as the drain that I park in front of. And while the rollers are keeping my thighs on the firmer side of flabby, winter always seems to turn me into a mushy, stiff mess.

But climbing that hill on Comm Ave, and slowing to a crawl on my new-ish gearing, I almost laughed. A year and half ago, I was walking up this thing, with gearing that was significantly spinny-er. And I just rode down this same street no-handed. Something I couldn't do even two months ago.
Hopeful that the sun bathing the backs of my calves will somehow even out my ridiculous tan, I ran some errands around town in the last hours of daylight. And my bike luck turning, I ran into Boston's Cutest Messenger, riding, as usual, on the insane side of dangerous: clipless, brakeless, and helmetless.

Trying to keep my inner cougar from pouncing on him [he's 19. sigh. SIGH.], we rode for a few blocks together, me just a little ahead of him. And turning my head when he called out goodbye, I heard a bro-dude shout:
"You can beat him!"
Actually, I couldn't even if I tried. I was also furiously winded after trying to actually stay ahead of Boston's Cutest. The planned attack on the following hills were done with half-hearted enthusiasm between slightly uncomfortable gulps of air. Man, I'm slow and weak.
School's only going to make all this worse. But surprisingly, I think I'm okay with that. At least for [right] now.
I'm a busy girl. And perfection's tough, you know?
[And yes, it is Rapha Scarf Friday...]

rolling addiction

Despite a calf that's wound up so tight my heel actually hurts, I'm pushing, thrusting, alternatively gritting my teeth and biting my lower lip. Eyes closed, head tilted back, hissing in air and letting it out in trembling exhalations. Moving my hips just a little bit to the left, a little forward...right there. Right right there. Don't stop; keep still.
Ohhhh, yeah. That's the sweet spot.
Thighs burning, trying to savor that feeling of perfection...then my front wheel's veering left, my rear wheel almost skidding before I can straighten the bars. But holy shit, I had it. That narrow slice of motionless, rolling perfection.

It's an addiction. The one thing I hungered for on visits to NYC. The one thing that had me hopping on a bus back to Boston, to an apartment with no AC. The one thing that I know is going to keep me sane this fall.
Which is ironic, given how Sisyphean it is to actually ride rollers. Unlike trainers, these things require some semblance of balance, and assurances that "well, when you fall off, you kind of just stop and tip over" are actually more terrifying in real life than it sounds. Especially when that actually involves bashing into the doorway first. It doesn't not hurt.
Then again, it's sort of like law school. Studying endlessly, trying to stretch the days and hours that are never enough, just to stay right where I've always been on the sliding scale of competency [as always, measured by grades]. The only obviously tangible reward being the glimmer of a degree and the hope of a bar card.

But maybe it does all make sense. Because physical pain - from my heinous saddle or otherwise - is much easier to understand and work through than the kind that law school will hand you. That mental crushing and breaking that feels like a bomb went off in your head while your heart and brain free-fall into empty panic and you can't even feel your face. An inexplicable feeling of desperation that can only be described as "fuck my life," despite the fact that that might be the biggest understatement made.

So while unemployment stares me in the face, I'm staring down that spot on the wall right under my Embrocation Cycling Journal Volume 3 poster [go get yourself a copy of Volume 4, seriously], pedaling, sweating, and making things hurt while other things go numb. My priorities are clearly a mess.
But hey, at least constantly trying to balance on those rollers means I'm also doing some power kegels. That's productive...right?