Bike Fridays

One reason why I hate public transportation. Or more accurately, one reason I need a bike friday.

And while even my own mental image of myself riding around on a folding bike is absurd, I still would have rocked that thing all over NYC yesterday when, after waiting 10-15 minutes for the 6 train, the metro employee decided to tell a handful of those who asked that the 6 "wasn't running."

(At least I got to go to the Museum of Sex.)

Which brings me to Bike Friday. The one in Beantown that started at the masochistic hour of "before 7am" and promised a police escort to government center. And free breakfast.

It was probably the latter that had me shooting down my usual commute to work to meet up with a convoy in the sticky heat. It was totally worth it. The police made corkscrews at every intersection, and for once, I rode in without anyone trying to kill me, honking at me to move into the door zone of parked cars, or feeling the need to race that one guy who thinks he's faster than me but isn't.

And, you know, there was free breakfast.

Hopefully I'll be leaving hats around at the next one...

measuring up

Measuring up has never really been my forte.

Even literally. Something's always not right. I've mastered the art of miscalculation of seam allowances. Making patterns from my own measurements means drawing, cutting, sewing, making adjustments, ripping it apart, then repeating, repeating, repeating.

It's easier when you have a friend be your "model." You don't have to twist around so much while using three strategically placed mirrors to make sure the back of the shirt you're making is just right while you manage to jab yourself with about ten pins. In, like, your armpit.

But it's also harder to please someone who isn't you. Because everyone judges. I claim not to, but I still will. "The hem line is crooked." "The thread tension's off." "Look at all the mistakes - I can't ever wear this in public."

Which makes making things that much more excruciatingly painful and annoyingly perfectionist.

"Why don't you ever wear what you make?" my best friend once asked me.

"Because I'm too embarrassed by all the mistakes."

"I think you're just OCD."

That's probably true. But I'm still not sure if I'm measuring up, or even measuring correctly. So I'm still worried about the fit of the hats. Are they too small? Too big? What about the brims? Too small? Too floppy? Too...something?

Am I measuring up yet?

...still cheating

I'm still on that cheating high where you feel totally awesome because at least one person is sweating you hard enough not to care that you might actually be dating someone else.

Like when you get compliments and looks because of your shiny new bike and you totally forget about your trusty old beater and how you're not even going to look at that new ride once it starts snowing.

Or like when the cute bike mechanic abandons the bike s/he's fixing to look at yours. (But come on, like some dude's mountain bike can really compete with your carbon frame, brakeless, fixed gear with 52/12 gearing, 650 on the front and 700 on the back?)

So I sent this hat out - to a (yet) undisclosed location. Via mail.

My bike probably hates me. But USPS is loving me...right?

third hat...mail off

There's really no point in cheating.

Because in the end you figure out/come to your senses that you should have stuck with whatever/whomever you're cheating on in the first place.

I would know.

Or at least my legs and ego would. (Who would have thought that I could get up hills faster with one gear as opposed to, say, twenty one?)

So I know I shouldn't be cheating, but I am. I'm sending these hats out to one of my favorite bike shops in the area - International Bicycle Center in Allston. And technically that's cheating because I'm supposed to drop them off by hand. I'll feel the guilt later.

Oh and the return address? I borrowed that one from a friend. Because we all could use a good alibi when we're, you know, cheating.

second hat drop off

It's hot out.

Like the sewing machine is melting off my face hot.

So maybe someone can use a hat or two in this heat. Or hopefully the owner of a white bike with matching helmet parked across the street from the Loew's can.

At least it'll keep the sweat out of your eyes. And, you know, it's free.

unfinished business

You know when you start hooking up with someone who is clearly psychotic and who keeps trying to rip your balls off but you keep going back for more? And you tell yourself that it's because the sex is so awesome or because she's so hot and you probably couldn't do better and all your friends are jealous of you? Until you realize that you don't actually think she's that hot anymore and you're sick of disinfecting the bite marks she leaves on you?

That's kind of what I'm beginning to think this project might be. Some misguided project in complete masochism.

It could just be my OCD though. I have no idea what happened to that hat I left last night at the Otherside. Which kind of bothers me.

But I have more. People seem to want Boston bike hats. Okay. But where do you people even park your bikes?