back on the tank

I watched some bits and pieces of the World Track Cycling Championships on cycling.tv [yes, the ones from March...I know, I know] last Sunday while sweltering in the humid heat. Mike just randomly put it on his computer; he later said it should be inspiring, but I think he just has a thing for girls on bikes with big thighs.
It was cool to watch, though, especially because whoever was shooting it insisted on taking close ups of all the female racers’ faces just as they started their sprint. There were all kinds of grimaces as they turned gears that weren’t ever meant for normal people, making the painful start somewhat hilarious to the spectator on the other side of the screen. Their otherwise impeccably made-up faces crumpled into a burst of speed as each racer booked it around the velodrome on feather-weight bikes that were something else.

My mom once asked - as if I would know - why female athletes sometimes have make up on before their event. A few months later, she informed me that she had figured it out:
“It’s because that’s the only time they’re ever on TV and they probably want to look nice.”
Thanks for the FYI, mom.
Anyway, back to bikes that are made to go fast. After riding Mike’s Cyfac and a few days off, my legs were feeling good, so it’s back to Dovering it every chance I get. By now the routine is familiar, and climbing onto the bike a few days ago, I pushed off...and grimaced.
You know those tactical war videos where there’s a tank that’s going over some small dirt hill at a weird angle so it ends up briefly stopping at the top of the aforementioned hill, nose pointed at the sky, before the sheer weight of the thing makes it crash awkwardly down the hill? That’s the image that was running through my head the entire time I was on my tank of a bicycle a few days ago. Shit is heavy. And to think I’m leaning towards a steel frame for that ever elusive road bike...
I got used to it after a few miles, but it was kind of a pain in the ass. Literally. My glutes were tired, my calves were seizing up again, and I reeked. Eh, easy slow ride tomorrow, I thought. Something kind of lazy but enough to get me out of the house for a while. Nothing fast, anyway.

Of course, when I make those kinds of decisions, I inevitably run into people I know who have gears and are way faster than me. This time, it was 100psi in a Rapha Club Jersey and on a Gold IF Factory Lightweight who joined me for most of the way back. My relaxing ride went the way of toe clips in the pro peloton because seriously, who has gears and actually goes slower than 15mph? It was fun, though, to ride with someone new, and I do appreciate the faster pace. I did feel a dark chill of fear when we passed Paceteaser-BRC-IF guy who thankfully was heading in as we were heading out. I sighed in relief though part of my head spun at the idea of getting caught up in a ride with BRC-IF guy again.
My legs made it home, got stretched, then the arms got to work doing some push ups and reverse flys before a shower, lunch, and coffee. Then it was back to work for the tank that is my brain, slowly lumbering through Intellectual Property law for that exam I’m taking today. The last 24 hour take-home law school exam of my life. Hopefully it’ll go as smoothly as my rides; even if it’s a little more painful than I’m probably expecting.

where are the girls?

Matt was telling me about the cigar bar he was going to later that night:
“Yeah, it’s really cool; the only people there are basically guys...and the waitresses are all women, you know. It feels like what life was probably like in the 50s. But I think it’s important, you know, to have a social space that’s reserved for men.”
I could see it. Dark, polished wood and leather armchairs that were just comfortable enough. Waitresses in black dresses and that richly sweet smell of cigars mingled with testosterone and tasteful cologne.
“Total boy’s club,” I said, rolling my eyes a bit.

And while we laughed at the semi-ridiculousness of it, I wondered again where the girls were. My aching calves and twitching thighs told me that it wouldn’t really matter where they were because I’d never be able to keep up, but I still wondered. And wracking my brain for a social space that might only belong to the women [other than the kitchen], I couldn’t come up with anything.
“I don’t think we have that,” I said, “I don’t think women have a space that’s just for them.”
And in a way, why should they? It isn’t the 50s anymore; there’s really no need for groups of women to gather together to commiserate over cheating husbands. Nowadays, you just kick that asshole to the curb and file for divorce. I mean, sure, we couldn’t get our shit together to get the ERA passed, but that doesn’t mean that women aren’t climbing social, political, and economic ladders. We’re on bicycles, too. Racing them, even.

So yes, in a way, it’s ludicrous to think that women would need to huddle together when they voluntarily signed themselves up for this sport in the first place. In fact, it borders on the insulting to think that women would. I’ve met enough women in cycling to know that they are - for lack of a better word - tough. And why wouldn’t they be? Unlike running, where you probably can’t go 10 feet without meeting some fun, completely you-compatible potential best friend material who will accept you for who you are, slow pace and all, cycling is one of the more isolating sports I’ve participated in. I could ride miles and miles, day after day, without spotting even one woman on a bike in my age group. Which, given my consistently pained expression, gasping breaths, and twitching leg muscles, is probably a blessing in disguise...I’m pretty sure I’d scare off more potential friends than draw them in with the ridiculousness of my current set-up. But the men? Yeah, they’re out there in droves. They’re fricking everywhere, in fact.
Which explains all the penis jokes, plus my complete lack of female friends, but not really where all the girls are at. I’m not talking so much about the hardcore ones...I can easily hit up Cambridge and Natasha for some introductions of that variety if I ever get anything with gears. But you know, something more middle of the road. Do they congregate anywhere? Or are we all just in limbo until we either get way better or decide to just stick to skirts on step-throughs?

On the other hand, maybe it’s all a bit contrived, anyway. Maybe the mutual interest in that generally vague category of “bicycles” would be the only common denominator. Maybe wanting a social space reserved for girls just because the boys have one is sort of silly. And maybe it’s not really worth worrying about, anyway. Because those boys really keep me riding.
Matt and I parted ways later that afternoon. And I knew deep down that if I asked to come with, he wouldn’t mind the female company, even if it was to a pretty much all male cigar bar. I didn’t though, because cigars aren’t really my thing. Who knows if competitive cycling ever will be? Maybe in a few years, maybe never. I think, though, I might prefer riding alone.
At least for now, anyway.

saddle woes

So, yes, I did watch Paris-Roubaix on Sunday. Yes I saw FabCan dominate the last 45km and be all like PEACE OUT, BITCHES!!!!, and yes I saw Boonen come in a measly fifth. And yes, there is now a dope t-shirt about the events of last Sunday.
And yes, I finally got back on my bike yesterday.

While I would love to say that I dominated my Dover ride with the ease of FabCan, it was a lot more like Boonen’s attempt at a sprint. I thought things were going okay, picked up the pace a little with what power I thought I had in my legs, and then realized that three days off the bike is about two too many. The leg that usually doesn’t hurt that much started to hurt on the way back. Now my IT band is ever so slightly bothering me. Ugh.
Oh yeah, and if you didn’t catch it on Twitter, I had an awesome saddle sore to keep me company, too.

Did you think I was going to post a picture of it? YOU DID, DIDN’T YOU? I’ll spare you. Mostly because I’m sure you’ve all seen one before on your own respective asses. I usually get mine in the most uncomfortable places [although I guess any saddle sore is uncomfortable], and I’ve learned in my two years of cycling that there really isn’t much of a cure. I mean, you’re always given the choice of tolerating it or trying to lance [Armstrong] it, but the end result is the same kind of disgusting.
But here are a few things I’ve learned from trolling the Internet in desperation the first few times I’ve gotten one. Some of it specifically for the ladies, of course:
1. Laser Hair Removal > Trimming > Waxing > Shaving. Some people say waxing solves their problems while others say that it makes things better but requires a lot of regular exfoliation. Pick your poison, just don’t shave.
2. Wear proper shorts. Not doing so is the number one reason I get these things on the regular.

3. Try to keep things clean and dry once you do get one and don’t irritate it. Saddle sores = the only reason I might sleep without underwear on.
4. Neosporin is your friend. I’ve heard acne medicine works to reduce it too; basically anything that’ll dry it out and suck all the bad stuff out at the same time [has anyone tried baking soda?]. Some people swear by using those corn pads if it’s really bothering you [I’ve never tried it]. Epsom salt baths help to an extent...but who wants to take baths in the summer?
5. If you do lance it, disinfect religiously. I don’t even want to think about what would happen if you don’t.
6. If it’s huge, go see a doctor. There’s a reason I’m in law school: because I was too stupid to get into medical school. So remember that this isn’t proper, professional medical advice. I’ve heard of saddle sores as big as golf balls and if that’s what you’ve got...sorry, dude. I can’t help you.
Oh, and don’t be shy about asking around. Everyone who has ever put in decent miles on a bike has gotten one of these at some point in their lives, and I’m sure someone out there has some kind of cure-all for this that I don’t know about. Case in point: Mike bought Bag Balm when he got one. It’s for cow udders and is made in part from sheep bladder.
He claims it worked. To each his own [saddle sore cure]...right?

riding is my pcp

After riding every day for at least 2 hours since last Thursday, I was starting to feel it on Monday. Tuesday, I told myself I was going to enjoy my rest day. Instead I predictably paced around my apartment and was generally restless.
So yesterday, even with only 6 hours of sleep, I was going to ride. Besides, it was going to be something like 85F and gorgeous. Not too much wind, either. Perfect cycling weather!
Because I’m generally a wuss, I like to make up my flexible goals as I head out the door. Yesterday, I tentatively decided trying for that negative split [I’ve only managed an even split the past few days]. You know, as soon as my entire lower body stopped complaining.

That decision solidified as the ride progressed and all the kinks worked themselves out of my legs. I didn’t do so badly climbing some of the bigger hills, and I was cruising along at a nice clip once I hit South Street. Half zoned out in that happy place that cycling can take me, I kept thinking back to that Bicycling article, “Riding is My Ritalin.” Cool article, but as applied to me, riding’s more like my Paxil.
At a light, I drew up next to three women. I assumed they were all together, although one looked clearly more inexperienced than the other two. I said hello, then as the light turned green, kicked off. The woman next to me was faster, and she sped away from the other two cyclists [who I presumed were her friends]. Caught between her and the other two, and assuming she wanted to give me space to pass, I balled up to catch a draft off her until I could be on my way. But with cars behind us on the narrow road, I was stuck on her wheel. I could see her cadence changing as she shifted gears on the uneven road. I pressed my body onto my thighs, in the drops and elbows nearly hitting my knees to maintain the pace.
We hit a hill and I knew I was going to pull an asshole move. I was hoping I wouldn’t though.

No such luck. Halfway up the hill she slowed down, and for me it was either pass or tip over. I hammered past her, out of the saddle, and floored it. Not out of any motivation to prove anything to her, but with my terrible pace line skills, the cars, and the narrow lane, I didn’t want to be some douche-y wheelsucker.
I made decent time the rest of the way and bumped into a guy in a Boston Road Club jersey on an IF with downtube shifters.
“Hello,” I said. Then, “nice bike.”
IF guy said thanks, then we parted ways. A few minutes later, I hit my 15 miles [in less than 1 hr, no less!] and was excited about maybe getting home even faster. Still feeling the effects of cycling Paxil, I was actually in a good mood, humming along to Eminem on my iPod and checked out of reality.
Then, a voice drew up beside me:
“Gotta get back to work?” It was IF guy.
“Um, no...you have to? Aw I’m sorry.”
And that was the start of cycling becoming my PCP.
Let me back up. The first thing you might notice about IF guy are his massive thighs that taper into chiseled calves. Salt and pepper hair stubble covers a strong jawline and square chin. He looks big for a cyclist, but apparently that just means there is a giant fucking engine in there. He looks fit, but not unlike your run-of-the-mill recreational rider. Yeah, um, wrong. As Velocb would later describe him: deceptively fast. He slipped in front of me and just for shits and giggles, I thought I’ll draft off him for the 5 seconds it took for him to drop me. Besides, a short sprint would be good for me.
He didn’t drop me. He wouldn’t drop me. He kept just far enough ahead that I couldn’t get into his slipstream but close enough to tempt. And out of some stupid sense of politeness or competitiveness or cycling induced crazy, I chased that rear wheel with everything I had. FOR THIRTY FUCKING MINUTES.

I’m sure if I had been capable of thought, I would have wondered if I was going to have a heart attack. Instead, I gulped air and made my legs hurt more, holding out a desperate hope that he was going to get tired of the slow pace and peace out. He actually tried to talk to me during this whole ordeal and all I could do was sputter. I felt like [a much less accomplished] Seabiscuit.
We finally parted ways at the rotary. I ended up shaving off a total of 5 minutes of my total ride time, making my average speed something like 16.4mph. I sat in front of my desk the rest of the day, while my legs wept.
At least Velocb would later say that I looked “super strong” on Twitter. I actually saw Mr. Mystery Pain Cave Guy on the IF later that day, on my way home from a lecture. He waved.
Yeah...Unfortunately, I think we’re meant to be friends.

rolling through shit

When I said I was good at creating disasters, I was only half serious. I mean, I can make a pretty mean mess in the kitchen, have gotten myself into some spectacularly stupid situations, and have somehow managed to permanently scar my knees within 6 months of starting to ride. Despite all that, I haven’t endo-ed, broken my collarbone, or lost any fingers. This lulled me into being comfortable on my rides. I had a routine down, and it seemed to work.
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t prepared on those rides. I love being prepared. Not being prepared and armed with several alternative plans and to do lists exponentially increases the likelihood that I will turn into a crankopotamus. Diving straight into disastrous situations due to lack of preparation turns me into a giant bitch bomb. So I try to avoid that.
I said “try.”

Because when you’re doped up on sunshine and bike rides, sometimes, shit happens before you even realize it’s happening. And that’s exactly what happened on Friday.
With plenty of good weather outside, Mike and I planned a super easy 3 hour coffee ride. The planned route was the full 40 mile Dover loop; nothing new or special about it. Just a lazy, relaxing ride with a lot of Vitamin D thrown in. We fueled up on oatmeal and coffee beforehand, stuffed our pockets with all the essentials, and headed out in the late morning.
Even with a relaxed pace, we made good time, but an hour in, and my stomach started to growl and whine. The coffee and shared slice of banana bread were more than welcome by the time we rolled up to the Charles River Coffee House and quieted my rumbling tummy. Amped up on caffeine, we climbed back onto our bikes and headed west.

Half an hour later, I was suddenly fucking starving. Famished, I was looking at another hour and a half in the saddle with hills that kill me even on my good days. My legs felt more wrung out than painful. Welcome to bonks-ville.
The power turned down and the bitchery turned up. I was hurting and cranky and frustrated and that voice in my head started to ask all the discouraging rhetorical questions about what in the world I was actually doing. Meanwhile, I was barely able to keep my bike upright. Of course, I refused to stop, take a break, or touch the Larabar in my pocket. I felt like a failure. I just wanted to get home.
We pushed through the hills, mostly in silence as I was completely devoid of humor. Finally on flatter ground, I pushed away thoughts of a juicy [turkey] burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake and gave it all I got. Almost, almost home.
Then Mike got a double flat.

By this point, the ride had edged itself out of “terrible” and into “ridiculous.” Mike flipped his bike over and with only one spare tube on him, we ended up stuffing my 700x28 tube into his 23 tires. Somehow we managed not to release all the CO2 from the cartridges before attaching it to the valve [I’m a master of wasting those things], which is a good thing because we only had two between us. In the middle of peeling off his rear tire, I mentioned how the ride was devolving into a disaster.
“What are you talking about?,” Mike asked, “This is fun!”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. And he was right. Well, we both were. It was slightly disastrous but in the end, nothing I couldn’t handle. Which was a kind of cool thing to learn.
We did get home in one piece. And once through the door, we even came up with a really good meat snack. I heart me my meat snacks.
Shit happens [to everyone], I guess. You just have to learn how to roll through it.

geared epiphany

You guys.
I had an amazing epiphany yesterday. I now understand why most bicycles have gears.
Wait, wait. I know you’re rolling your eyes, muttering “she’s realizing this NOW?”, shaking your head, clicking onto the next blog in your reader, or all of the above. But it takes a while for things to sink in, okay?
When everyone told me I “needed” a geared road bike, a part of me agreed because, hey, can you really have too many bikes? But there’s a learning curve with those things...I just didn’t get why there was so much shifting back and forth involved. When I said that I could mash up the hills just fine, people just said something like “well, you want to be able to walk when you’re 40, don’t you?” or “what about your knees?”

Okay, fine. Apparently you can go longer and faster, when you can shift up and down and all around. I understood the concept, but not really how it was going to change my life.
But then, yesterday. Out on the usual 2hr ride, I was hauling ass to get a negative split for the entire ride, not just part of it. When I wasn’t fighting wind, I got a really good pace going; my thighs were aching, but nothing unmanageable. And then, just when the wind died down for a bit, I hit a flat stretch of road. Hunkered down in the drops, neatly clipped in, I was spinning out.
My initial thought was to knock off a tooth in the back...and then I realized that I wouldn’t be able to climb all the hills if I did that. AND THEN BECAUSE I’M AN IDIOT AND KNOW NOTHING BUT A SINGLE-SPEED, MY NEXT IDEA INVOLVED GETTING A SMALLER COG, PUTTING IT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF MY REAR WHEEL, THEN FLIPPING MY WHEEL [TO THE FREEWHEEL SIDE] EVERY TIME I HIT A HILL.
Do you want to know my next thought? It was: ...but that would be such a pain in the ass...I wish there was an easier way to switch between the two---OHHHHHHHHH...!!!!
Cue light bulb turning on [finally] over my head.
Yes, I am a dumbass.

Hours later, my face in my third coffee of the day at [my favorite] Cafe Fixe [yes, I can drink my weight in coffee. Don’t judge.], I revealed my life-changing realization to Matt. He snorted, rolled his eyes, and laughed, saying:
“I like how you do everything in reverse.”
As if I would do it any other way.
[But for those of you who want to follow by example, for less than the cost of my saddle, Walmart is now selling a "fixed-speed" bike for $150.]