doing the wave

There are about three things that make my mornings fully worth it. Post-roller coffee made in my French press, a hardboiled free-range egg from M1's parents' chickens [they are adorable], and Older-Cyclist-Dude-with-the-Amazing-Jackets. The last even waves.
I think we first saw each other earlier this year when it was still frigid out. On Beacon Street right as it bends around the Chestnut Hill Reservoir, he'll be heading downtown as I'm rolling the other way. Both of us in leggings, he always in clipless shoes, me alternating between sneakers and Sidis, we were the select few braving the cold. He waved; not the usual subtle nod or the fingers raised in acknowledgment with a thumb still looped around the bars, but almost as if he were signaling to turn. Hand fully off the bars and fingers outstretched like a small salute. I raised my fingers in response.
We've continued this interaction for a few months now, whenever we see each other. I'm pretty sure he rides through the winter. I'm pretty sure we would be awesome friends.

Okay, I'm probably making that claim because the wave [and, consequently, acknowledgment] - from a clearly[-more]-seasoned[-than-I] cyclist - is really just a form of flattery. It could be explained by your siiiiick bike, or your ability to exude some sort of pro-pheromones [pro-mones? pro-romones?], but the bottom line is that you're getting noticed by someone else. And when that someone else clearly knows his own shit, you get to feel a little more legit.
Especially considering the frugality with which cyclists dispense waves. Not everyone will wave or wave back...which could result in that awkward, extremely uncomfortable feeling where you try to say hello to someone and they blow past you to exchange greetings with someone clearly more socially important. And even if those hints of acknowledgment are based on snap judgments on what you're wearing and how well you can hold a line, [roadies will ignore anything without a helmet on it, while clipless shoes seem to be a good sign that you're not just dicking around on your bike] it still feels pretty good when you get it. Plus, it saves you the trouble of trying to play off that rejected wave as if you were trying to...um...wipe the sweat from your forehead...or something...

But it's funny, because while in actuality it's harder to break into the roadie world, it's the fixsters that will resolutely refuse to nod, wave, or in any other way recognize that another human is on a bicycle. Well, I take that back; unless your bike is a candy-coated, anodized wonder, then they will refuse to acknowledge you, especially if you are sporting a cassette. But somehow, even when I'm struggling and going at the incredible pace of 10mph, experienced roadies will sometimes acknowledge me. And it wasn't until a few nights ago, sipping coffee with a trusted confidante and discussing friendships formed over long hours in the library, that I realized why. Like the 12 hour days good friends and I have spent in the library on weekends, or the weird antics we got into when working on legal memos until 3 in the morning, doing longer road rides can bind strangers together through the experience of common misery. There's an underlying love involved - what else can motivate us to get out of bed at 6am on a Sunday to get a good ride in before noon? - but it's the recognition of suffered pain on a bicycle that seems to dictate whether you get the nod, or not. Pretty bikes will get you looks, but unless you're really riding that thing, it won't get you nods.
There's always an exception, though, isn't there? On a rare occasion when I trotted out the track bike, pretty in pink and fixster-ed out, a familiar cyclist passed by me on his instantly-recognizable celeste green 80s Bianchi. He looked at me quizzically, eyes directed more at the bike than to the person riding it. I raised my hand and waved as he slowly realized that it was the same girl who rides the beat up Bianchi San Jose. He smiled.
Maybe he was just being polite. But I like to think that he knows that I know how to suffer.

treadmills and triathlons

A few years ago - back when I could be found in nothing lower than 2 inch heels, with hair down to the middle of my back - Sex and the City was blowing up on HBO. Lack of a TV in my college dorm room meant that I was never able to follow Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha quite as closely as some of my friends, but that didn't mean I was oblivious to it all. And as that infamous foursome sought love in the Big Apple, people claimed that the show was clear evidence that the "30s were the new 20s."
I naively believed it back then; barely 21 and fully immersed in the self-centered mentality of college, where you're not really expected to think outside the small universe you've built around yourself. I remember being sort of relieved upon hearing that claim, actually; a decade plus of time mentally stretched out before me. Plenty of time to figure out love, life, and everything in between.
But now officially in my late twenties, I can tell you this: your 30s will not, in fact, be anything like your 20s. I don't care how "mentally young" you claim to be, it's not the same, if only for the sheer fact that when you're 30, you probably aren't still partying on your parents's dime. And by that time, it's really not socially acceptable for you to be doing so, either. So that whole bit about your 30s being the new 20s? Huge lie.

Unless, of course, we're talking about treadmills and triathlons. Then, it somehow seems like women in their 30s dominate, and are having as much or more fun than their 20 something counterparts.
Maybe it's the typical social calendar and Friday nights of the recently-post-college set that tends to get in the way of regimented training sessions and yoga classes [and who can really blame them?]. But the typical "fitness chick" tends to be a woman more experienced than those just making their way into the workforce. They eat well, hit the gym nearly daily, and work around their work-outs, all while juggling spouses or boyfriends and possibly children. The image isn't an envious one; fitness chicks are constantly busy, and all they eat are salads and health food. Sure they have amazing bodies, but who really wants to put in that much work to be like them?
Or so the 21-year old me thought. But looking around - at my calendar, the rollers, the yoga mat that has it's permanent place in the center of the floor, and even the contents of my fridge - it seems as if I'm slowly becoming a fitness chick. Granted, I mostly stick to cycling, but I've ventured into Pilates and will sometimes even hit the gym. Five years ago, I hardly knew how to work a treadmill and detested wearing sneakers. Now, I can't live without either. When did that happen?

Last July, on the weekend following my birthday, my sister had cackled as she asked:
"So how does it feel to be in your late twenties?"
As if, at 28, she wasn't already well into her late twenties. I had a bit of an existential crisis for a full minute before heading out the door to my new favorite bike shop. Neatly clipping into my pedals on Second Ave, I didn't feel 26 yet [bicycles tend to have that general effect]. But I knew I was pushing a gear ratio that would have killed both my knees a few years ago.
Dodging pedestrians in Chinatown, I finally had an answer for my sister: it feels great to be in my late twenties. It feels better, in fact, than when I was 21, smoked daily, and could live off bad Chinese food, pizza, and Krispy Kreme. And I'm kind of proud to say that...even if I have my inner budding fitness chick to thank for it.

roller girl

If you've ever seen even one scene from The Paper Chase, you have a vague sense of what it's like to be called on in a law school class. Even as a third year, the Socratic method of drilling questions eludes me. It's like being asked to perform a waltz with cinder blocks for shoes. You know it's not going to happen but somehow you have to brace yourself and hope to God it's a short dance.
Yesterday morning, I felt like that. All before class even started.
It wasn't tax for once [I've actually become comfortable with the uncomfortable feeling of being the proverbial bull in a china shop in that class], but my face was red and there was that sinking sense of dread. The slightly flustered, panicked thoughts which too soon melt away into resignation at your fate. And counting the minutes while simultaneously trying to forget about the ticking clock.

Because it really sucks when you climb onto your rollers at 6.30 in the morning without coffee and 5 minutes into it, realize that you forgot to turn the fan on.
It only occurred to me once my shoulders started sweating and rivets of sweat formed along my hairline, dripping uncomfortably down my jawline towards my chin. Chalk it up to laziness but it wasn't worth it to stop, turn on the fan, then get back onto the rollers. That felt like too much effort. Instead, keeping a wary eye on the timer, I finished my warm up with my head tilted up and cocked to the left, desperately trying to keep sweat from dripping onto my frame.

In hindsight, whatever I was doing sounds fairly retarded. Or just vain for my frame.
I used the end of my warm-up as an excuse to finally turn on the fan. By then, my chest and shoulders were wet, my face looked like I had just run 50 feet, and my gloves were damp. I looked like absolute shit, but somehow, I didn't feel that way. I was drenched in salty water, but my legs felt stronger. Allowing myself some time to dick around, I even rode no-handed for a grand total of 0.03 seconds.
And between you and me, it was much more graceful than dancing with cinder blocks.

wild thing

Going to the dentist freaks me out. Like most people, I don't particularly enjoy getting the insides of my mouth poked and prodded with sharp, cold, metal instruments. I might not even mind that discomfort, actually, if it wasn't for the lies.
Why is that? Like every "don't worry, this won't hurt" is dentist code for "grab the sides of this chair because I'm about to blast air onto your raw nerve! Woo!". And then there's the "relax, I'm just going to take a look [and pull out this wisdom tooth once you allow me access to the back of your mouth!!! AAAHAHAHAHAH SUCKAAAAA!!!!]." One can only take so much of that, and once I give up, lying in that dentist's chair placidly, my dentist will always tap my shoulder, saying "don't tense your shoulders up so much, relax," and if it weren't for the 4 different metal objects in my mouth, I'd tell him that I'm not tensing up, I just have broad shoulders, but thanks for reminding me of my manly attributes.

Even after surviving traumatic wisdom tooth extractions [it involved a hammer and chisel, and yes, I was conscious], I still cringe and whine before a dentist appointment. The association is too strong to have those harmless tooth cleaning sessions absolve the dental profession in my mind. And it's that same unforgiving ball of anxiety that greeted me as I threw my leg over the Dolan last night.

Because for once, it was out in the wild. More familiar [and lighter!] road drops having replaced the anvil that was my steel track drops, I had hoods to grab onto for dear life but I wasn't sure how that would actually translate. I remembered balancing precariously on those white-tired, pink-rimmed wheels and wobbling dangerously as I attempted to keep the track drops straight. I remembered almost biting it a block from my apartment. I remembered how it felt to tear open a few knees on asphalt. I remembered being on a bicycle and feeling slightly afraid.
So I cringed a bit, and felt a little uneasy sticking a foot into the toe clipped pedal. But with a deep breath, I pushed off and it felt easy. Maybe all that time on the rollers paid off. Maybe I just got better at cycling. Maybe riding the Dolan wasn't so terrifying as it was incredibly fun.

The Dolan's light aluminum frame slicing through the last rays of sunlight in the quickly darkening afternoon, I was almost tempted to ride it on the street more. Good thing my gearing borders on the impractically ridiculous if inclines are involved. Because otherwise, as stiff pain reminded me this morning, I may not have much knee left...

resting day

I am no stranger to working hard to be lazy.
I will stay ahead in my class readings so I won't have to work that hard over the weekend, cram my Ortlieb bag full of food so I'll only have to go on one grocery run a week, and run up five flights of stairs with a bike slung over my shoulder so I can savor an extra 3 minutes doing absolutely nothing before class.
Some might argue this takes the joy out of being lazy; that the sheer organization skills involved and constant planning makes life more hectic than languid. But I'm a creature of [rushed, busy] habit, and besides, that whole "everything should be done in moderation" argument falls apart faster than a Walmart bike when it comes from people who enjoy biking more than 200 miles a week.

But when you're an aspiring Cat 100 track racer with a couple finnicky IT bands, taking a day off the rollers [not the foam ones] is sometimes a good thing. And while I felt guilty enough to contemplate a sweat session after dinner, like my end-of-the-day reward of taking the elevator instead of portaging the bike down those stairs, I have to admit I sort of enjoyed it.
Hey, I said "sort of," for all of you bike jocks who are shaking your heads in disgust while averaging 100000000 watts on your warm ups. Keep in mind that I'm not even at junior varsity level yet...I'm the equivalent of an intramural club hopeful. And though I live, breathe, and write about bicycles every day, a small part of me is ever-so-slightly scared that this obsession can pour over into an overdose. Like the kind that requires hospitalization and detox.

So like the tiny bites I'll take of my Walnut and Date Kind Bar [they are so good] to make them last that much longer, I'm trying to nibble and savor every sweetly satisfying bite of my bicycles. And when it seems like my enthusiasm is waning to the point where it could become slightly nonexistent for several days, it's time to take a temporary leave of absence and allow myself just a small morsel of laziness.
And you know what? I woke up today and couldn't wait to get back on those damn rollers.

being the blimp

Bicycling Magazine's "250 Best Cycling Tips" had this to tell me:
"The ideal amount of body fat for an elite male rider is 6 to 9 percent, for a woman, 11 to 14 percent."
I found it mildly hilarious that I would somehow have to lose close to 10% of my body fat by spring. Putting it up as my gchat status message, a fellow legal-eagle-cyclist-Belgophile IMed me:
"Story of my life, friend."

Manorexia is old news in the cycling world, but when all a guy has to do is eat 2 cheeseburgers a day rather than 5 to lose weight, where does that leave the girls? When 20 to 24% of the average woman's body consists of fat, how do you shed the pounds? By eating tissues? Doing the Master Cleanse...forever?
Sure women are built differently than men - except for maybe my sister who could probably eat nutella and peanut butter all day and still clock in at an envious 96 lbs - but that doesn't mean I'm not prone to self-conscious pangs of guilt and gluttony. When Brett saw a picture of M1 pre-riding-seriously-several-times-a-week-and-losing-more-than-25-lbs, he [half] jokingly called him fat. When I heard that, I wanted to either run on a treadmill until I lost 20 lbs or eat a whole chocolate cake. Instead I sighed and got back on the rollers the next day.

What can you do? Surrounding yourself with guys who seriously love racing will teach you a thing or two about training and the mechanics of a bike, but it'll also have you inspecting your arms and legs to see if the veins are popping out of them yet. It'll have you wearing loose t-shirts to hide love handles and anything less than washboard abs. "Fat" and "skinny" in the cycling world aren't defined by normal people. They're defined by the Olson twins.
Which is enough to have me - usually the only girl in the crew - feeling like the resident blimp. And it's not too far off base; poptarts and cereal for dinner my first year of law school left me with 10 additional pounds that I've been trying to get rid of since. But now officially in my late-twenties, and with dreams of Kissena, there's a reason to drop those 10 pounds [and hopefully more].

So I've been cutting calories, avoiding refined flour, and riding and running whenever I'm not at a desk. It's slightly embarrassing; it's actually the first time in my life that I've been concerned about my weight, and ashamed by it.
Sounds kind of like confessions of a developing anorexic, huh? Don't worry. As we were discussing the need to drop weight, my legal-eagle-Belgophile friend said:
"Manorexia takes dedication that I just don't have."
I agreed. I'm just too damn lazy.