Sent a few days ago from Josh, this [especially the part at 0:48] has kept me riding on [what is for me] windy days:
[Note: the music is an acquired taste. You might want to mute your computer if you're in a public place.]
sufferfest: making life more difficult
Sometimes I think I deliberately try to make life more difficult for myself.
Like how I am currently stuck in Albany, NY, in a hotel with no room service. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know that universal rule that a hotel located in a not so urban area, no matter how many amenities it may offer, will always make you feel more helpless than it really has a right to. I simply chose not to ask a stupid question [“do you guys have room service?”] and am being punished for it as a result [I am starving]. No, it’s not like I lost my will to stand and walk around - although more than 24 hours in Albany might have that effect on some - but it’s sleeting out. Sleeting or icy raining or wintry mixing. Basically, miserable is coming out of the sky and walking on the sidewalk is like wading through a giant frappucino.
And I don’t have my bike. Not that I would ride it on roads that are starting to look like rivers of slushy diarrhea, but because - as the saying goes - when the going gets fucking icy out, the real roadies try to figure out the fastest way to make themselves puke while riding the rollers indoors.
A seasonal rite of passage where contrition for even considering participating in cross season is exhibited in the form of intervals, a bludgening market for trainer DVDs has emerged in the past few years that seems as varigated as porn. And with titles like, “Spinervals Fitness 2.0, Sweating Buckets,” and “Mindy Mylrea: Super Cycle: The Best Ride in Town,” the similarities between the porn business and the sweating on your bike business might not be so few and far between. It might be slightly awkward to watch at times [“what exactly are they....that can’t be real...am I actually supposed to want to do that?”], but how terrible could a training video be?
With that thought in mind, and a preference that is more Suicide Girls than Chasey Lain, I invested $10.99 of my hard-earned money to purchase Revolver, a video by the newest trainer video producer on the scene, Sufferfest. Available immediately for download, I was on my bike and rolling through a ride within 20 minutes of hitting “Buy Now.” And since that moment, I have been hooked. Like turning that shit on and riding until my legs shake, four days out seven, hooked. Hitting “play,” to a soundtrack that I now associate with suffering at a perceived rate of exertion of 10/10 in one minute intervals, for thirty goddamn minutes, I first follow a bunch of guys on a brisk ride, before heading vicariously to the Manchester velodrome for the Madison event, then onto the U-23 World Champs, the UCI Cyclocross World Champs, and wrap it up [my favorite part] with Tatiana Guderzo and the ladies. It’s excruciatingly hard - the first time I did it, I wanted to weep, then pass out in a puddle of my own puke - but it’s equally addictive: Revolver has become the perfect 45 minute escape from the snowy shitfest that is Boston.
This could be all because, like I said, I might enjoy making my life more difficult than it should be. Of course, it wasn’t enough for me to just schedule in a few Sufferfest sessions into my week. I had to do it on rollers, thereby forcing myself to sit through the sprints and savor the sensations of my ass falling off while I was at it. But like any cyclist - from seasoned pro to newbie amateur - will tell you, that feeling of despair and complete destruction after a hard workout can’t be beat. And when you don’t have 2+ hours, or daylight in which to ride, Sufferfest will deliver, kicking your ass good and proper so you can keep up with your crew, or at least feel like less of a lazy waste of space.
I can’t say I’m putting out 6000 watts yet, but I am working my way up to Sufferfest’s newest, Local Hero, which clocks in at 85 minutes of pain, intervals included.
God, I can’t wait.
turn left at kissena
“You’re Japanese, you have to do it.”
It was the default nationality reasoning, which, when you happen to be Japanese, gets applied too often to activities that normal people just wouldn’t choose to engage in. Raving? Cosplay? Zentai? Yup, yup, and yup [and no, I did not do all of the above].
But this time, it actually sort of made sense. For once, it wasn’t linked to sexual perversions, a big step in and of itself when you’re talking about being Japanese. It was something that, while there might be quite a bit over overlap between the fans/spectators of uniquely Japanese fetishes and this activity, I found kind of cool. Something that would probably still elicit surprise in Japan if I ever admitted being into it, but vanilla enough to enable one to talk about it openly [loudly, even] in public.
I am, of course, talking of keirin, or track racing.
A sport that, in my home country, is more famous for its status as a betting sport and doesn’t allow women to race, I never thought that I’d end up on a track on a random Sunday in June. I saw it coming, unconsciously, maybe, acquiring a taste for bicycles, dropping bank on a track bike that consequently terrified me, and choosing to spend a winter developing some semblance of balance on the rollers. But “working towards getting to a track” and “getting on a track” are two different animals. I could waste endless hours on the rollers and never touch a banked velodrome.
But cursed with the kind of friends who think that I could “do well” in certain activities that involve physical exertion and a bicycle [never mind if their logic is rooted in my unchosen ethnicity], “riding my track bike around” just wasn’t cutting it. Mike insisted I get on a track. Jared kept asking me when I was going to show up to Kissena. DS was included in plans to accompany me to Kissena one day in sunglasses, mustaches, and matching tracksuits with “SHIMURA” emblazoned on the back, a rising sun beneath it.
With two single-speeds - one a legit track bike - absurd costumes aside, it seemed like a good plan. So when Jared told me about Kissena’s Women’s Track Clincs, I poked around their website, and just in time, signed up for the last 3 hour clinic last Sunday. I BikeReg’d for my first ever event, felt sort of cool because of it, and then proceeded to spend most of Sunday morning repeatedly telling Mike how nervous I was while he got ready to ride in the support car and otherwise do really cool stuff with DS for the Danish team in the TD Bank Philadelphia International Cycling Championships [yes, I was uber jealous]. He told me I would be fine, that DS said I would kill it, gave me a kiss, and left, leaving me weakly pointing at my bike, on the verge of pooping my pants, yet again.
A few hours later, I was sitting in the middle of the first track I’ve ever been to, watching as experienced riders switched out cogs and chainrings, sprinted, and circled. A few minutes later, Joe - the main instructor and organizer - showed up with loaner bikes, and more clinic particpants filtered in. In all, about 10 women showed up, ranging from 10yrs old to 40. All were experienced in racing in some capacity, and I was thoroughly intimidated.
We first rode around the track, getting used to the banked corners, and learning how to use gravity to launch into a 200m sprint, where to stay on the track and how to pass others. After a drink of water and a few minutes of rest, we were then put in a giant pace line.
And that’s about the time when I started to get my ass handed to me. Mostly by a handful of tweens.
Due to my nonexistent pace line skills, and riding behind the probably 8yr old brother of one of the younger girls, I managed to get dropped, then linger in no man’s land for about FOUR FUCKING LAPS. Struggling to pull the rest of the line back to the front, I didn’t so much blow up as slowly putter out from pushing against the wind for what seemed like forever. I heard Jared’s voice in my head - “hey, at most, I’ll only be 399m ahead of you” - and then the wind gusted again.
The pace line broke apart, we drank by-then hot water, and rested before doing individual sprints, lead-out sprints, telephone pole jumps and power bursts, concluding with mock races. By the individual sprints, my legs were pretty much done. Of course, I apparently still had to go around and around the track, attempting to muster up some semblance of speed, while the wind treated us to billows of yellow sand from the baseball diamond adjacent to the track. By the time we were through, my jersey was marked by chain grease [from flipping my wheel] and patches of brownish-yellow sweat where I had wiped the sandy sweat from my chin. My glutes hurt and the sheer thought of climbing up 5 flights of stairs to Mike’s apartment with a bike over my shoulder - much less the ride back from 42nd St - made my head swirl.
I made it, though [an almond butter sandwich helped]. Brakeless, even. I had pulled out the cable in my front brake once I had arrived at the track and failed to put it back in properly. To be honest, I was a little disappointed in myself when I left; even though my riding has recently been limited to my commute, I expected to be a little stronger. I didn’t notice until halfway to the Main St 7 stop that riding brakeless was sort of coming naturally, and that I was totally okay with it.
Rain hit me around 27th St, but feeling bad about pulling out Mike’s Rapha Stowaway with my disgusting hands, I considered it a free shower and toughed it out. I made it up those stairs, jumped into the most awesome shower in recent memory, tried to study for the bar and ended up passing out in my underwear instead.
I woke up to stories and pictures of the Philly race, indulged in a delicious brownie made by Mike’s mom, and passed out yet again, dreaming of turning left at Kissena.
sweating changes
I am a creature of habit. Or at least, I strive to be. I like to unconsciously stumble to the bathroom and reach for my toothbrush with most of my brain still asleep. Have my feet lead me to my computer to turn it on while I boil water for coffee. Grab a mug from the cupboard on the right side of the sink, my hand knowing exactly how high to reach without a visual guide, much less conscious thought.
All of which meant that I was slightly afraid to wake up this morning. Because after three years, I’ve moved.
Not to a different, exciting city, not even to a different zip code. I schlepped my stuff [with the help of a few movers] a staggering ten blocks, two bikes in tow and more clothes than one girl should ever really own. After unpacking 80% of my things, pacing in an unfamiliar room, it finally hit me that things are changing - like really fast - and the anxiety crept up like that super commuter that hangs onto your wheel in all of his glorious neon. The one you can’t really seem to shake, making you be all like shit, is this really happening?
Unfortunately, [for me,] it is. My bar review course has started [before graduation!] which means 8-10 hours of studying a day, six days a week. Which wouldn’t be such a huge deal if I wasn’t so used to being so goddamn lazy, rolling out on 2 hour rides whenever I wasn’t expected to be in class. And trying to figure out how I was going to get those precious minutes and miles in, between studying and unpacking, I’ve been staring at my rollers with a mixture of relief and exasperation. Thank God I have those things so whenever I have time, I can jump on the bike and really savor indoor riding in the summertime!
It doesn’t help that I’m on a fourth floor apartment now, currently with no AC. Because it is fucking hot outside, people. A few days ago, I did a sweaty 2 hours in the saddle, inhaled lunch, went to meet my law school bestie for coffee, got nearly knocked out by an iced Americano [my first this year], and then almost passed out later. As in like fainted, not like spontaneously fell asleep as I'm prone to do. I forgot how much I suck at dealing with heat, even if I spent at least half my life in swelteringly humid Tokyo summers.
All of which led me to purchase a neon colored drink yesterday in an attempt to restore the electrolytes I was losing. Wait, don’t [mis]judge. I am not one of those people who insist on keeping protein powder in their library carrel because studying really flexes that big muscle in your head and obviously you need 100 grams of protein every other hour to keep that engine running. I just sweat. Like a lot. More than can be deemed normal or sexy; once temps hit 23C/73F+, I start not only feeling, but actively looking like turkey jerky.
So electrolyte supplements are sort of making a delayed entrance into my life. Mike’s a big fan of Nuun, and I love how you can carry it with you and only use it when you need it. I have two packs of Japan’s infamous Pocari Sweat and curiosity finally getting the better of me, I bought a sample pack of Vega Sport. But after my recent discovery that anything sugary quickly translates into acne [gross, I know], I’m a little hesitant to rely on any powders or shakes or what have you. Yeah, yeah, I know you can mix up a little ghetto fabulous electrolyte drink by mixing salt in a glass of water but I’m just not that into drinking straight up salt water on my rides [yet].
It did occur to me that the Master Cleanse formula of lemon juice, water, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper might do the trick as well. Might even make my rides a little more caliente. And then I realized I would probably end up on my hands and knees on the side of the road, gripping the grass or gravel with my hands while I tried to hack ground pepper out of the back of my throat. That is not caliente, even if I was in full Capo.
But like my incompetent fumbling with the hot water in the shower yesterday, which I’m confident will soon turn into an unconscious flick of the knob to get it just the way I like it, I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Hopefully harden up in the process, too. Because I have a date in a few weekends that’s going to involve a few good hours sweating. And passing out is probably the last thing I want to do.
under the knife ride
A few years ago, my father came gimping back from chasing my dog around outside in his sandals. He had slipped, broken his fall, and ripped off most of his big toenail in the process. It was still attached to his toe when he showed me, his foot propped up over the sink. He pushed the nail, making the blood caught between toe and nail pulse a little.
“See, I ripped it off.”
I mentally shrieked. My entire body was covered in goosebumps. I almost felt like puking and pooping my pants at the same time. Yet another reason I could never go into medicine.
I felt the same way - and possibly queasier - last night when I helped Mike change the blood-soaked gauze that was patched around his sutures. And by “helped,” I mean “watched in morbid curiosity.” Because I obviously don’t deal well with blood.
Not that I didn’t expect at least some of this. Mike had surgery scheduled to patch up his hernia for a few weeks now, and with little time and sunshine left before he went under the knife, Andy suggested we do a few laps in Prospect Park on Sunday morning. A 44cm Bianchi Valle was offered on loan but it came with flat bars, so I stuck with the Cyfac, but managed to nab a used Specialized BG Toupe saddle. I was told that it would be better than the leopard print stripe number I was currently using but I had my doubts.
Yeah, I was wrong. Again. The Toupe is flat, hard, and feels like you’re sitting on the hood of a giant Cadillac. No shifting around or constantly getting out of the saddle. Extremely comfy, it helped me concentrate on not being able to really breathe while trying to hang on with guys who were dumbing it down for me but keeping it at a steady 19-20mph. The flats weren’t so bad; but you guys know me: anything with over a 2% grade is a pretty big challenge. Gears make it hurt less, but also just remind me of how much aerobic strength I don’t have.
After a few laps, with me trying to hold the yogurt I had for breakfast down, Andy was craving coffee so we made our way to Cafe Grumpy. A few minutes after pulling up, I was sipping a delicious Americano and got nibbles of chocolate chip banana bread, a pumpkin apple spice muffin, and a zucchini muffin. All of which hit the spot after trying to keep up with two steel frames that went way faster than the aluminum one I was riding. Coach DS was definitely right about how it doesn’t matter what your bike’s made of.
Fifteen minutes later, we were back on our bikes, headed to do more bike-related things. No more puking sensations this time, or goosebumps caused by bloody bandages, just good times. And enough fun for Mike to hopefully alleviate the pain of not being able to ride for the next few weeks.
Lucky for him, the rain’s been helping out. Hopefully my domestic skills are, too.
back to...work?
Yo yoooooooo, I’m back from my 72 hour benderrrrrrrrrrrr.
Just kidding. Although there might have been a mini bender in between finishing up finals, packing up to move into a new apartment, packing more stuff into a small suitcase, and catching a bus down to NYC. Okay said bender might have only consisted of drinking less than 2 inches of beer and getting wasted as a result BUT THAT’S KIND OF CALLED A BENDER IN MY BOOK.
So that’s what I’ve been up to, mostly for lack of a better thing to do with all this “free time” I’m suddenly finding myself with. Because somehow “free time” doesn’t translate to more cycling, just budding alcoholism. And somehow, more work.
Because after 48 hours of attempting to pack everything I own into a bunch of boxes, I needed a break and decided that working in a bike shop would totally hit the spot. And you know, I kind of really wanted to show off one of my new outfits.
So Saturday morning I was back behind a bike shop counter - at the front of the shop this time - and pretending to know what I was doing or what exactly was going on. Chad and Kyle gave me the scoop on rentals and before I knew it, I was hauling Kona Humus from the basement, gushing about how much I love my Baileyworks, and buying pretzels for Jared. All in a really sick vintage Sportful jersey that I’ve been hiding since I snagged it off Ebay a while back. I mean, yeah, sure I risked getting dirt and chain lube and grease all over it but whatever placates my vanity, you know?
The weather being pretty frickin’ gorgeous, the shop was packed. Waves of people would stream in, meaning that burritos, salads, and breakfast sandwiches had to be eaten in stealthy bites behind the counter. Running back and forth, bringing things down to the basement or up from the back of the shop meant that there was hardly any time to notice hunger. Until, of course, Ish and Chad’s lunch appeared from S’macNYC. Soft macaroni elbows blanketed in gooey cheese with a delicately burnt cover of casein. I was drooling. Actively.
“Good thing I’m lactose intolerant,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I even prefer my pizza without cheese.”
“...That’s like preferring your men without penises,” Ish informed me.
Touche.
Hunger finally stoked, I grabbed my apple but with people still coming through the door, it got eaten in about 5 different sittings. The rest of lunch was a Chocolate Peanut Butter Luna Protein Bar that I managed to get to around 3pm. Those 12 grams of yummy chocolate-covered, Breast Cancer Fund supporting protein tided me over for another hour and a half of scurrying around and powered my nonexistent biceps through carrying more bikes up and down the stairs. And with a good dose of Iron and B vitamins from that Luna bar, I think I even did it with a smile on my face.
My 2/3 of a day complete, I sauntered back home around 4.30, ate some yogurt and passed the fuck out. A few hours later, I was back in the shop and a few hours after that, back on the bike. The last which proved to be possibly more painful than the last exam I took.
Well...almost.