It’s been over a decade since I’ve gone in for one of those tests, but the needle and the looking away, the way I could hear my heart beating in my head, and the slow exhalation when the deed was done has been coming back to me these past few days when I’ve managed to drag my butt over the river and to New Jersey. Actually there was more involved, like my loud ragged breathing and frantic spinning while trying not to pass out, and the other day, clinging onto a wheel knowing that that would be the only way I could possibly make it home in one piece.

Caught in the Rapha Wednesday ride a few days ago with Cassidy and Wei “Top Ten” Chen, I had no hope that I could keep up, much less make it to the end of River Road. I had tried the first climb [about a quarter-mile long] a few days before; and actually considered sitting down and nursing my legs at the top. But my solo ride yesterday turned into a group when I caught up with Cassidy and company on the West Side Highway. We were joined later by Matt – who raced with Lang back in Seattle – and Chris 2 from Velo. Our motley crew slid across the bridge and bombed down the sidewalk that leads to River Road, me mostly terrified and trying not to ride my brake but failing miserably. We would group together, then spread out, the faster guys flying down the descents and up the climbs. Hitting the first climb, Matt peeled off to start the climb from the docks on his single-speed. I made it halfway up in the big ring and then spun feebly the rest of the way, getting out of the saddle but staying in the drops the last 10 feet.

We dived down more descents, dodging some nasty potholes, while Chris and Cassidy laughed at how I rode like I was still on a track bike. The final climb appeared almost suddenly. Matt peeled off again to add another quarter mile or so to his climb. I looked up, and I ditched any thoughts of doing any part of it in the big ring.

“Just spin,” Cassidy and Chris advised, making it sound easy although my legs were incapable of moving at such a rapid pace, “and put your hands on the top of the bars.”

I tried, I did. But my body would curl forward like it didn’t want to sit up and the sensation of trying to “spin” in my granny gear but finding that some sort of mashing was also involved to get up a mile long climb was weird, for lack of a better word. The only thing I could hear was my labored breathing and since the jokes had died down, it sounded embarrassingly loud. Cassidy spun beside me, telling me that I was doing great and that I was almost there and I wanted to tell him that he should look into becoming a life coach but nothing would come out. I mostly sputtered, while flip-flopping between the top of the bars and the drops. I think I managed to spit out a rhetorical “seriously?” and even laughed when Wei – who had yet to break a sweat – and Cassidy pushed me up about 10 feet, their hands on either side of my back.

It got harder after that, though. The road curves deceptively, making the disappointment that the climb wasn’t over that much deeper every time I turned a bend. I gave up. Like the time BRC-IF guy paced the hell out of me, I stopped looking. I kept my head low, peeking at the 3 feet in front of my wheel and nothing else. I suppressed hopes that it would end, and just focused on getting up the stupid thing. Not that it made it any easier, but like those all-too-frequent blood tests taught me, in a pinch, not looking/voluntary denial isn’t such a bad strategy.

At the top, I nearly fell over. We stopped for a few minutes for a bathroom break and my feet were doing that thing where they quiver in my shoes. Cassidy suggested we all go up to the Palisades Marketplace, which was only a few miles away. To be honest, if I had been alone, I would have just headed home, but I’m a sucker for peer pressure so we went, Cassidy, Wei, Chris and Matt dragging my wheelsucking ass up there and then back to the city. In hindsight, my choice not to peel off was probably a good thing, as I probably would have died a long, slow death on the side of 9W had I tried to get home by myself [or been victim to the more embarrassing alternative: bonking and cabbing it back to the city].

Back at the Rapha Cycle Club drenched in sweat and crusty, Mike asked me if I would ever do it again, but I couldn’t really think. I just sat and looked at my legs and feet and told him I didn’t know. He asked me how the shorts were, and I remembered I had a new pair of Rapha men’s bib shorts on and thought about how I hadn’t noticed anything on my ride and even how my butt never got sore even though my thighs might be a bit wide for the extra-small. But hey, if I keep riding, they’ll slim down, right?

Well, probably not with the sheer amount of food I ate afterwards. But like I told Mike a later that night, that ride was the hardest thing I’ve ever done on a bike. That’s sort of embarrassing to admit, but the complete ass-kicking I got on Wednesday was also incredibly fun. It made me want a road bike even more [is that even possible?] so I that I could conquer that ride…or at least do it with a little more grace and maybe a tad less sweat.

Eager to fill that void in my life due to a lack of gears, I helped out for a few hours that same night at the shop. I had to cut my visit a day short and hustle back to Boston the following day, sore legs and all, but when I fell asleep Wednesday night, I was hoping I could do that ride again, one more time, before I became gearless again.

With the hopes of working towards a new bicycle, I worked a few hours at the shop this past weekend. I restocked shelves, sold helmets and lights, was asked advice on sizing for someone my height [answer: difficult], mastered the basics of the cash register, ate lunch on my feet, and made fun of Ish. The usual suspects, who I always tend to forget about when I’m stuck at a desk for too long, were in. There was the guy in his early 20s, just getting into the fixie craze and primarily concerned about making his new bike look really flashy. On the hunt for powdercoated Deep Vs and anondized everything, inevitably with a budget too small to build his fantasy bike, I cringed a little remembering my own pink anchor-like rims. Selling those off moved up slightly on my list of priorities.

Next came the [predictably] Japanese tourist bike dorks, murmuring and pointing at the Ellis hanging in the middle of the shop, behind the pretty Vanilla. They bypassed the impressive single-speed, choosing to ogle instead at the geared wonder, and when Justin showed them the electrical shifting, they gasped in unison, and ooh-ed and ahh-ed for a good 5 minutes. It was nerdily endearing, maybe [mainly?] because they were Japanese.

And then, of course, the bike celebs. Saturday evening, John Prolly and John of Two Tone Atlanta [Twitter friend meet up!] swung by on some awesome bikes, then proceeded to molest the Vanilla with their cameras. We talked bikes and the New York State Track Championships taking place at Kissena, and took pictures and tweeted. They hung out for a while, before heading off to check out the Rapha Cycle Club, and when I looked at my watch after they had left, it was almost closing time.

Post-dinner, all I could do was sit with my legs stretched out in front of me, staring dumbly at the calves that felt like heavy clubs. Mike said he was going to hook me up to the Globus he borrowed from Brett, which sounded like a terrible idea. But then again, maybe not, as I woke up Sunday morning with dead legs and that sort of oppressive cloud-like sense of obligation to ride anyway. I did [in the park, nonetheless, which was pretty much like a circus], making my Sunday outside the shop my own fun day [there may have been some RuPaul involved...].

No naked dancing, though. But at least I know where to go to see that on any given Sunday.

Well, I’m sad to admit: it can get pretty bad. Like mullet bad. Like wtf-I’m-actually-going-to-pay-another-stylist-to-fix-this-because-I-never-want-you-near-my-hair-again bad. Like I-briefly totally-considered-suing bad. [Although it doesn't look as terrible tied back...oh and do you love my Little Mermaid bath towel? I DO!]

Post-mullet-imposition, feeling sort of terrible for myself and acting right in line with predictable contradiction, I picked up the search for things to acquire. Even in spite of all the discarding and donating, I’m a packrat at heart. So reminding myself that that new one bedroom won’t fill itself, I went hunting for a new bicycle.

You know, the one with gears that I still haven’t managed to get my hands on [total lack of finances having something to do with it]. Ebay and Craigslist hasn’t turned up much, and I’ve pretty much given up hope that the Internet was going to deliver something awesome to my impatiently clicking mouse. Until, bitching and moaning to SkullKrusher about anything in my size that was decent, he showed me…

…THIS.

Possibly the shittiest bike I’ve ever seen, a close examination of the description of this stellar thoroughbred on two wheels will tell you that shifting can only be done on the top of the bars, like a mountain bike. But to brake, you need to use the hoods. I actually don’t really understand how this works, except that somehow, someone took grip shifters and forced them onto some road bars. And then expected people to buy it.

But fascinated in a disgusted sort of way, I couldn’t stop looking. And Googling. Amazon.com provided even more entertainment with some amazing reviews of this zippy 21-speed bike, and trying to figure out wtf is going on with the shifting, the ghetto quill-like stem, and who at Shimano was on drugs when they agreed to supply parts for this monstrosity, I found a picture. One that is almost as amazing as the existence of this bike.

At first, unable to admit that this could possibly happen, I convinced myself that I was seeing it wrong. I stared for a while longer, closing in on my computer screen, squinting some, tilting my head. But, no. What you’re thinking…dreading…is right. That’s a GPS, mounted on a sub $250 bike, with the hoods on backwards. Oh, yeah, and with those grip shifters. Awesome.

And if that hasn’t made your Monday, here’s another shot where you can see the grip shifters in all their glory, plus this guy’s impressive wrap job.

I could feel mechanics around the world cringe in unison, and my lunch almost came up through my nose when I saw the second picture. I clicked through the rest of the pictures provided by Amazon and considered buying one for about 30 seconds, mostly to embarrass friends that I would make ride with me. Oh the fun times it could provide…until the whole thing fell apart 20 miles from home, of course.


Sadly, I decided against it [I can be persuaded otherwise, though], for now. Which means no new bike for me, yet, but after discovering this little gem, I can’t say that the search hasn’t been anything short of entertaining. Even with a mullet.

KS: Okay, let’s start with some basics: how did Speed Metal PC start? What was your original idea behind it and has it changed since?

SK: Well, my brother Lucho was getting so much attention with his silly blog (Cycling Inquisition), that I felt a little left out at family gatherings. Lucho would be the center of attention telling Gramma and Aunt Maria Fernanda all about his internet fame. I had to do something about it!

Actually, that’s all bullshit. We have no Aunt Maria Fernanda. We do, however, have an Aunt Maria Magdalena, a Claudia Marcela and a Marta Lucia. OK, seriously now, here’s the story: I really got into listening to podcasts while riding a while back. Not only cycling, but F1, soccer and football. I noticed that most cycling podcasts (especially those in the U.S.) were about cycling culture and not about the sport itself. It was a little frustrating. I’d get my fill of news and analysis from my F1 podcast, for example, and I’d learn nothing new about the pro peloton from any of the cycling ones. All I got, if I was lucky, was a rundown of the GC of the major tours. What I was SURE to get though, was plenty of ranting about riding your bike and what frame was better and some local century and the hosts new set-up. It’s a very American thing, I’ve noticed. People who are “soccer fans,” play the sport, but don’t go to the stadium. Meanwhile if you show up to a pub early Sunday and meet a bunch of British fans, less than half actually play the sport. I’m a huge cycling fan. I love the sport. I have loved it since I was a little kid. Buying a road bike and riding it is a relatively new thing for me and I’m not that interested in hearing people talk about riding. I’m a fan first, a rider second. I guess I wanted to create the podcast I’d like to listen to.

How has it changed? Well, I don’t think I’m as bitter towards “bike culture” as I used to be. People can do whatever they want, who am I to tell them otherwise. If you want to buy a Cervelo and ride it once a month without ever hearing about the Kuurne-Bruxelles-Kuurne or some other race, it’s fine with me. Enjoy. Another thing that changed was my original co-host, DJ Dezzy Dez, left the show. He moved. The dynamic we had was fun, since he knew nothing about cycling, but I think his departure has helped move the podcast in a better direction. I’ve done a few episodes with my brother Lucho and with Mike Spriggs as co-hosts and I like it better. I feel we get more in depth and they get cycling inside jokes.

KS: Also, you told me earlier that you didn’t expect people to be so into your podcast and what you were doing with Speed Metal. Did that change your own expectations of what you wanted it to be or become? Any additional pressure from all the fame?

SK: I’m not sure I knew what to expect, but I was overwhelmed with the amount of feedback we got, even after the first episode. Now, I think I feel a certain amount of responsibility to the people who listen. That sounds so fucken lame, but I do. I feel a certain amount of pressure to get new episodes done and to keep the quality of the information and the humor high. One of the biggest things for me now is to “take advantage” of the relative popularity of the podcast to launch other projects, like the T-shirts I’m doing and eventually (read: hopefully), develop Speed Metal Cycling into a brand. Jerseys, underwear, loopy straws, trading cards and incense.

KS: Loopy straws, huh?

SK: Dude, loopy straws are the shit! Your milk has a roller-coaster ride before it touches your lips. Not only are you happy ‘cuz you’re having some milk, but the milk is happy ‘cuz it just went on a loopty-loop of fun. Can’t wait to make some Speed Metal PC ones. Until then I have the Jens buttons. They’ve have been a real hit. Of course, they’ve been a hit ‘cuz they are free, but I’ll take whatever success I can get. My next big project is a limited edition set of 60 pins each featuring 60 of the best cyclists of all time. I’m doing 200 sets and releasing them 6 cyclists at a time. The first wave will be done soon.

KS: Can I get a bro-deal on those?

SK: Bro-deal? The only deal i know about is the ho-deal, when a prostitute gives me half off cuz it’s my bday…

KS: Oh…so…um, how’s riding in Colombia different?

SK: It’s really, really, different. As a past-time, riding a road bike is almost non-existent. I can tell you that out of all my friends in Colombia, actually of all the people I know in Colombia, 50% of them may like cycling, but I can’t think of one who owns a road bike. The majority of people who ride are people in the lower economical strata. Usually kids (farmers) in small towns in the mountains trying to use cycling (if they go pro) as “a way out” of poverty. In recent years that has changed a little and you might see an upper middle class dude here and there riding a carbon frame around the city, but overwhelmingly it’s considered a sport for the lower class. I’m almost embarrassed to tell my friends there I ride a road bike for fun. They will most certainly make fun of me and ask me how my potato crops are doing this season.

KS: And tell me about the curses and witches!

SK: Colombia is a country (not unlike many Latin American countries) that is very superstitious. The amount of weird superstitions that exist in the sport is insane! My bother Lucho has done a couple of lengthy posts about the topic on his blog. Personally, believe in a lot of that stuff and I have too many superstitions to list, but I can tell you I’ll never go anywhere without a silver key my mom gave me to “keep me safe.” Not sure what that means, but now I don’t feel safe without it. There’s a few more amulets I take with me when I’m on my bike and I cross myself five times before a long ride. My mom got it in her head a few years ago that someone, probably and ex, put a curse on me. I now fully believe it, but I’m doing something about it! I wash my face every morning with holy water, in my wallet I carry a piece of folded white paper I must NEVER unfold and I sprinkled some weird powder thing my mom sent me on threshold of my front door.
Colombian pros are nutty about that shit, too! We’re all nutters over there!

KS: Okay so if you’re so superstitious, do you believe that things were meant to be? Like you just happened to sit next to Mike, or that we just happened to be the only minorities at the Rapha event a few weeks ago?

SK: Hahaha! We were, weren’t we? Everyone probably thought I was the delivery guy from a Mexican restaurant and you, of course, from a Chinese place. But, no, I do not think that everything was “meant to be.” If I did, I wouldn’t bother with all my weird rituals, you know? I think that each of us is destined for certain things, but on everyday bullshit, we write our own destiny. I know, though, that without all my rituals, I’d be writing a really bad destiny.

KS: Were you destined to get into cycling then?

SK: Being born in Colombia, I think I was. It was hard to escape the craziness in the early 80s. The country was obsessed with cycling.

KS: And switching gears a bit: best race to watch, and why?

SK: Damn, that’s a tough one… On TV, for me, it’s a toss up between the Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix. Both races have such tradition and history of drama and usually live up to the hype. If I may use the term; these two races are “epic.”

KS: Personal favorite race/race stage, ever? (and of course, why?)

SK: Damn, another tough one… Off the top of my head, 1990 Paris-Roubaix. It was a photo-finish between Eddy Planckaert and Steve Bauer. At the end the race was decided by an inch or something. It was a nail-biter all the way to the end. Maybe the ‘84 Roubaix. It was a total mud-fest and Sean Kelly won it like a man. Fuck, I’m sure there’s probably an Alpe d’Huez stage I’m forgetting. Oh, shit Il Passo di Gavia in the 1988 Giro!! Freezing cold, snowing, windy and zero visibility. Breukink and Hampsten couldn’t even stand on their own after the finish. Shit, if you have a chance to watch that, take it. THAT is an epic stage.

KS: Out of curiosity, because you obviously love watching/following pro cycling, what do you do when season’s over?

SK: I masturbate a lot… is this part of the interview? I hope so…Actually, I watch a lot of classic cycling and Formula 1 races, I watch American football. I have an extensive collection of old cycling videos, so I get me fix while I fantasize about the Spring Classics to come.

And there you have it. The mysterious Mr. SkullKrusher. If you’re inclined to stalk, follow him on twitter here, follow the podcast here, and subscribe to it here. Because you should.

* Note: Last image = SK supporting Colombian transplant George Hincapie in the cobbles of Northern France at this year’s Paris-Roubaix (image courtesy of SK)…Lucky bastard!

It’s a trick that I’ve seen Brett execute several times a day at the Rapha Cycle Club. Spotting a fly lurking around the coffee table, as I looked around for a fly swatter, Brett took a rubber band, took careful aim, and released. The band jumped through the air and bounced off the stagnant fly’s body. They fell one by one, dead before they hit the ground, one even severed in half by the snapping rubber. No splatter though, and the neatly bunched up corpses – iridescently pretty if they weren’t such goddamn pests – got snatched up in a napkin and quickly disposed of.

“What are you going to do when he leaves?”

It’s a question I’ve been asking for a while now. We all knew Brett was getting married in August, that he was riding cross country for his honeymoon on custom IFs, that he was going to leave the Rapha Cycle Club and wouldn’t be back until after it had closed. It all seemed surreal though; even on his last day at work, I still saw him hanging out at the Rapha Cycle Club. But a week after that we were driving up to New Hampshire in a rented Mini, up to Sugar Hill, New Hampshire where phone reception doesn’t exist, the climbs are impressive, the roads kind of shitty, and you can get the best pancakes, ever.

A pre-wedding ride was planned but with some heavy hitters on the invite list and still without a road bike, I sat out. I had imagined a blissful morning of quiet reading while Mike climbed around the mountains on his De Rosa, maybe an excursion into town later, which I imagined could only be described by the word “quaint” [“nonexistent” might be more appropriate]. The Mini dampened such plans for Mike, making arrangements with other wedding-goers further complicated by the whole “lack of reception” thing, so instead a lazy breakfast was consumed, and what do you know, we saw the wedding ride sweep past us just as I drained the last of my Americano at Wendle’s Deli. We waved, and DS peeled off the group and offered a trip into Littleton to do a little discovering with his wife [who is, as expected, adorable].

We watched gliders being dragged across the sky, then being released to float in slow circles and land silently. There was a bike shop next to DS’s hotel, in a converted barn, and what do you know, they even offered horse back rides. I caressed an inquisitive nuzzle looking for carrots, and heard the thudding of hooves in my head and remembered the feeling of flying.

And Littleton? World’s Longest Candy Counter. ‘Nuff said.

But back to the real reason we were there: the wedding. AND THE CAKE. DO YOU SEE THIS THING? Designed by Brett to perfectly match their custom frames, it seemed like everyone took out their respective cameras to snap a shot or two. We milled about, I completed my fuzzy picture of “cyclists that Mike always talks about but who I haven’t met yet,” and for the first time in forever, I saw Jared. In a suit.

And then I saw Jared officiate the wedding.

Casual in that it wasn’t stifling, and carefully written, the speech made the crowd laugh and the bride and groom were full of smiles as they exchanged rings. People cheered as they said their vows and all of a sudden Brett was married. The wedding bands were quietly impressive in their implied weight, the rose gold glimmering pink and radiating a warmth that’s hard to come by in normal gold rings.

As the sun set, hor d’oeurves were consumed, champagne sipped, then dinner plates piled high with Tofu Wellingtons, veggies, and couscous, paired with glasses of wine, and more champagne. Speeches were given after the obligatory tapping of the glass, and though at any other event – no matter how exciting – I would have been exhausted, I wasn’t ready to go home until the wind picked up, reminding us all that this was New Hampshire, not the humid pockets of Boston or New York.

So, yeah, that’s why marriage has been on my mind lately. And as Brett and Edie take off to pedal across the country from Portland to NYC, I’m wishing them all the best. But with a stellar wedding behind them, gorgeous IFs beneath them, and forever to look forward to, I’m pretty confident that they won’t need luck or well wishes. They got this.

Congrats, again, guys! And I’ll be following your blog…so post lots! See you when you get to NYC!

And like ideal husbands, in my mind, the Crown Jewel was smooth and perfect; like so perfect that I would never want to ride anything else and everything else would feel unnecessarily harsh due to its shoddy craftsmanship. Nothing, even a carbon fiber bike made by 8 year old South Asian children carefully selected by Pinarello for their dexterity, would ever compare. It would accelerate at the flexing of a muscle and would take me to far off places like Belgium, France, the Netherlands, and even Tokyo. We would be together, forever, and it would be the only bike I’ll need for the rest of my life. Sure, there might be something carbon in the later years of my life when my mid-life crisis hit, but out of a burning building, I would only grab the IF. In fact, in my imagination, I would even run into said burning building to carry out the IF: pristine and sparkling, ever ready to sweep me off my cleated feet, albeit with some melted tires.

All of which was sort of silly and purely the stuff of dreams because I had never ridden an IF before. Actually, my rides have been limited to one steel Bianchi single-speed which feels like it was made from water pipes, one aluminum track bike, and one handmade aluminum Cyfac that’s too big for me but has Campy Record on it. So, yes, I based my dreams on the opinions of friends who either work at IF, have IFs or who have ridden an IF. Great sample pool, I know.

But as luck would have it, last week, a green Crown Jewel arrived at NYC Velo. A demo bike for a potential IF buyer and built up with Dura-Ace. With a 47cm seat tube and 51 top tube, it was a touch too big, but something I could get my leg over, and when offered for a road ride upstate, I immediately accepted. I may have asked my customary, “really?” but it was with the intense hope that yes, really, I could take this out for more than just a spin around the block.

Late Friday morning, pedals screwed on, saddle switched out, and appropriately dressed, I headed out with Mike up 9W, the goal being the Palisades Market, maybe Piermont if we felt like it. It was little-ring-sitting-in riding for me; maybe taking it a little too easy but paranoid about hurting my leg so soon after getting back on the bike. The rear gear got switched up and down, up and down, Shimano apparently making more sense to me than all that Italian stuff that requires opposable thumbs. The bike, though obviously heavier than carbon fiber, was nothing like the steel I’m used to; it’s solid but doesn’t feel like there’s a dead body attached to your rear wheel. There was no conscious realization that it was steel or that extra effort was required to ride it. Light enough on the flats and secure on the descents, with gears that didn’t question my constant shifting, it was a lot of bike.

But it was a lot of fun bike, which was new and different, too. There wasn’t the terror of not being able to stop [I’ve given up on halting the track bike, quite honestly] but that’s not to say it’s a slow ride. Even in the little ring, with legs that have almost forgotten how to pedal, it required only a little pushing to kick up the speed to 22mph. And with no need to worry about how to slow down, it fed a desire to go faster and longer and up and over bigger and bigger hills. It got me to the Palisades Market without killing my knees or legs or lungs or heart. And I had it going even faster on the way back [although, yeah, that tailwind helped out, too].

It was over all too soon, and I almost didn’t want to return it. Actually that’s a lie. I didn’t want to return it, period. I wanted to ride it again the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. It didn’t even fit, which was the weird thing; I’d never felt such an attachment to something that was obviously less than perfect, that didn’t quite conform into my mental image of how things should be. It was clearly too big, but here I was, finding it difficult to say goodbye to something whose purpose was to fulfill a temporary curiosity; a loaner.

A few days later, I heard that little bike had changed. Narrower bars, shorter stem, the works:

“It’s different, now. You should try riding it again, next time you’re in town.”

Me and that little green loaner? That rebel?

Oh, I’ll be on it again, luck permitting. We’ve got some big adventures to live.

When the sense that I should be doing something with some semblance of productivity creeps up on me – “guilt” is too strong of a word to use here, I think – I’ve sought solace in my computer screen, attempting to find employment, catch up on blogs, or form my own densely muddied thoughts into words, sentences, or paragraphs. On one particular effort to re-educate myself on what the hell has been going on all summer while I was living under a rock, I found out that Velodramatic has been in France for most of July. In response, I kept my head perfectly still, glanced to my left and right, minimized Chrome and closed my laptop. Mental note made to read that later; sometime soon, I promise, just not now because the concept of Paris [Paris?...PARIS...?!] is a little overwhelming right now.

But despite the promise of vicarious vacays via Velodramatic, and the escape provided by the stacks of blogs and books to consume aside, I’ve still managed to spend most of last week watching and not so much doing. I watched as bags of gravel were shuttled into the Cycle Club, power tools taken out and new pictures hung in the gallery space. I spectated as graphics were laid out for the Rapha Continental gallery opening event Thursday night, and bikes were neatly positioned against each other. Rapha Continental riders themselves were in and out of the space from early Wednesday morning, and a little envious of all the activity buzzing around me, I offered to walk Rich Bravo’s IF – whose saddle comes up to just under my bra – from NYC Velo to the Rapha Cycle Club.

A few hours and a nap later – the latter is quickly becoming part of my everyday routine – I surprised myself by actually getting dressed in more than the Lululemon yoga pants that have turned into my version of what dirty sweatpants are to morbidly obese people. Jeans came out, plus a button down shirt, even a Rapha scarf…! I was pretty impressed.

Anyway, what was probably more impressive was the turn out and the presence of nearly all the framebuilders whose bikes were on display. IF, Igleheart, Seven, Bilenky…it was pretty cool to see the bikes and the people that made them, plus the guys who rode them, and people who are just into bikes in general. Though still in Step 2 of post-bar resocialization, which involves slowly learning how to interact with people on some sort of socially acceptable level, even I found the atmosphere totally chill and fun. And NO, I WASN’T COMPLETELY BLIZTED OFF THAT 40, THANKS.

Straight up sober, I still had lots of fun. I got to watch [among other things] Carey of Rapha [and Director of the Continental] climb into Kansas’ giant bag, met Skull Krusher [more on that later], and observed Cassidy’s attempts at pitching game. All of which made for a pretty solid Thursday evening. After closing up, we headed home where I finally peeled off sweaty jeans and shirt and passed out into the kind of sleep where you wake up feeling so rested it would be downright weird if you weren’t snoring the entire night.

And then I got up, clipped in on an amazing bike and went on a real road ride. More on that, though, later.

But like because we’re talking about riding a bicycle, the feelings were familiar. The sticky, oily feeling on my face, arms, and legs. The bits of dirt and sand stuck to any uncovered inch of epidermis. That wrung-out feeling in my legs, and the hunger that wasn’t there until it was, in full force, and I would have stuffed anything I could get my hands on into my mouth. But like getting on a bike after too much time away, it was also kind of weird and slightly uncomfortable. I had envisioned that my first post-bar ride would be relaxingly long. Slow, but cathartic. The mental image of turning the pedals was part of my August fantasy of awesome things I was going to do after the bar.

And in this personal fantasy, sweat and exhaustion were involved, but not the pain or the huffing or puffing. With a gusty tailwind up the West Side Highway, the fantasy seemed to be playing out as it had for the past two months in my head. Mike kept it slow and easy on his silver, red, and blue Cyfac, dressed in Rapha black, white, and pink and matching my bike more than his own; but still, reality set in a bit as I hauled ass to keep it at a measly 16mph. Which is something I should have expected, but you know how fantasies go: weakness and lack of fitness never quite make their way into them.

Reality really hit me in the face when I turned around at the GWB. The wind was definitely not feeling me. It wasn’t even like the whole “sorry I’m not feeling you right now, peace out,” but more like “I’m not feeling you right now AND I’M GOING TO SABOTAGE YOUR EVERY EFFORTS.” My legs felt heavy and fairly useless. All of a sudden I was parched and nauseously hungry – that one banana before my ride apparently wasn’t a sufficient breakfast. The humidity that hadn’t been a problem, suddenly was. My fantasy went the way of Andy Schleck’s rear derailleur.

But maybe that’s the way fantasies should go, anyway. The hard at times, assisted by a tailwind at others, facing a decent headwind and consciously struggling some of the time ride felt like it should. And though physically straining, it felt good to be back on the bike, the discomfort slightly reassuring in its familiarity.

Even if I felt like a marshmallow on a tricycle.

And what did I learn? That I’m capable of not riding my bike for over 2 weeks, that the Massachusetts bar probably wouldn’t have been so bad had I had more than 3 hours to study for it, that 5-hour Energy tastes like Robitussin mixed with Sweet N Low, and that post-bar, I am far from capable of interacting in any socially acceptable manner with anyone, much less go on a bike ride. That law school will never prepare you for this ordeal, and that at the end of it, you’ll end up feeling like shit, both physically and psychologically.

Oh, yeah, and as Ben was kind enough to inform me via Twitter, I even learned that I had missed the entire Tour. WHO KNEW?

And now there are bikes and friends and alcoholic beverages but I’m mostly just exhausted. I feel soft and gross and unhealthy. Riding a bike seems slightly foreign and the quick trip down to South Station from my apartment left my IT band aching again. It’s back to square 1, because, let’s face it, the stuff I’d been frantically cramming into my brain all summer had nothing to do with bicycles. Nor did it have anything to do with stringing words together to make somewhat coherent sentences and then publishing said sentences on the Internet. In short, my brain pretty much has that vacantly drained post-coital feeling if you took out all the good buzzy feelings and replaced it with someone repeatedly punching you in the balls [or, face, if you lack a scrotum].

So, yeah, I didn’t do much this past weekend. I packed my bags, got on my bike, hoped I wouldn’t kill myself on the way downtown, hopped a bus, and was at the Rapha Cycle Club in record time. It was Step1 in my efforts at resocialization, and though Ben questioned my choice of locale, it was comforting to know that everything was still basically the same. Nothing had drastically changed; the regulars were in attendance and the pastries and coffee were equally delicious. Conversations may have referenced the Tour, but they didn’t start with “Hal and Wanda got married in 1995. In 1998, they got divorced and Hal left a will that is going to fuck with your head for the next half hour.” And consistency [or lack of change], when it makes bar exams seem like bad dreams, is a very good thing.

So despite my own hopes of regaining my fitness or doing 5000 miles on my bike this week, I’m not quite sure either of those things are going to happen. But, you know, like passing the bar, there’s still a hope that they might.

And hey, at least I didn’t miss Shark Week.

I know the last time I posted, it was about the same pop-up shop, and that double-dipping isn’t socially acceptable, even on the Internet [although, let’s face it, we all do it when no one’s looking]. But this time it was done and officially open on Saturday as the first stage of the Tour took off. And given that this past weekend was the last time I was permitted to laugh or otherwise crack a smile until after the bar, I took full advantage and headed down to NYC, Rapha, and a boyfriend.

And you know what? It was worth it. It really was. To be honest, I had my initial doubts and slight trepidations. Boyfriend managing the store aside, I’ve gotten shit for the Rapha-related things I’ve done; the smirks and comments on whether I really paid $70 for a silk scarf with cogs on it, the accusation that just liking expensive stuff meant that I didn’t like to ride so much as look like I did, or that Rapha Scarf Friday prevented people from actually taking me seriously. The affiliation with Rapha suddenly became a lot more frustrating than I had ever expected, and came with baggage that, when I started this whole cycling thing, I never knew existed. Confused and embarrassed, in a way I blamed Rapha for leading me into this mess in the first place.

But haters are everywhere, and walking into the completed space, the Rapha Cycle Club is a lot more inviting than I expected, and completely devoid of the pretentiousness that people love to assume and hate in Rapha. There’s a long 30ft long wooden table flanked by jerseys and huge flat screen TVs on one side and a coffee bar run by Third Rail Coffee [serving Stumptown coffee in customized Rapha espresso cups and Blue Sky pasteries] on the other. Men’s jerseys and the women’s line flank the giant broom wagon sitting in the back of the space which doubles as a fitting room, but is also just fun to climb inside. A rotating gallery space is off to the left of the broom wagon and the limited edition t-shirts hang right next to the women’s jerseys and shorts.

Books, magazines, and newspapers are free to peruse and wi-fi means that laptops are in attendance. The floor to ceiling front windows provide ample opportunity to soak up your RDA of Vitamin D as well. A chalkboard up front has the Tour schedule as well as a race report written up by Mike of the previous stage [well worth the read and what will become, I’m sure, my primary source of info for what’s going on in this year’s Tour], and appropriately printed up on yellow paper. And because this is a shop for cyclists, there’s some awesome bike parking as well.

Surrounded by cool gear, and unable to resist, despite knowing full well I couldn’t possibly afford it, I tried on the red Stowaway jacket in a size 10…and found that I somehow fit into a size 8 [the XXS]…!!! Other than fueling my vanity and making my weekend, it was awesome to know that even the smallest size allowed for slightly bigger hips. The jacket didn’t clutch and cling to my hips like others do, silently implying that my butt is a lot bigger than it should be given my waist size. Admiring how it looked in the mirror, I mentally thanked Rapha for not judging.

But this is Rapha, a company from which we expect all the great little, meticulous details that other companies get points for. The space was going to look great; I knew that without even seeing the floor plan. I was hoping, though, perhaps selfishly given my own experience, that the Cycle Club wouldn’t be another reason why I should be that much more self-conscious about having done the things I have with a few scarves and a neck warmer [it was all G-rated, I swear]. And simply put, it was. For the first time since I started making friends who thrive on competition, I felt excited about being into bicycles, even if I still can’t do jack shit on one. I didn’t feel so out of place as I thought I would, and I even went back to hang out for longer than I really should have, every day I was in NYC.

I left there yesterday morning with a bidon, a bonk bag, one of the white limited edition scarves [thanks, Slate!], and even some new friends, sad to leave but the terror of the bar dragging my feet back to Boston.

“I’ll be back in August,” I promised.

“August?! Come back next week!” Cassidy said.

“I wish I could,” I said. And I really, really meant it.

[More pictures here...and make sure to follow them on twitter!]