judging appearances

Sorry, but I don't believe that people don't judge appearances. At least to some extent.
Like a messy apartment. Don't try to tell me that a filthy living situation isn't being mentally assessed the first time you see it. Maybe, unlike me, your mind isn't racing, trying to find a way to get out of said disgusting apartment, but let's be honest, you're still judging.
One reason why I will frantically clean up my apartment if anyone is going to even just stop by.
Unfortunately this hasn't really been translating to my bike. I've been the worst bike mom recently. So bad, that I've found myself in uncomfortably embarrassing situations where I take my bike in to be looked at and end up muttering some apology about how I meant to clean it before coming into the shop, while the mechanic reaches for a rag.
Yeah, I bet he's judging. I would.

I managed, last night, to chip away the crusty salt-dirt-water mixture that was caked on my downtube though. My rims got wiped down and I also realized that my rear hub is actually a shiny silver, not some gray/matte silver color. The chain got lubed and my tires pumped; those usually get done, but it doesn't really do much to improve the general messy appearance of my bike.
As always, I ended up with grease-stained hands, wrists, and arms. Soap only does so much, which means I get to appreciate exactly how manishly dirty my hands look as I finished the rest of my tea.

I've come to the conclusion that bike grease just isn't swoon-worthy or even endearing on a girl. Or at least not on this one. And, even though I know you're going to [because I totally would], don't judge, okay?
[Edit: it's gorgeous out today. Get out and ride!]

muddy optimism

I'm really bad at being optimistic. Once, in a stupidly foolish moment of one-sided confidence, I declared my conviction that people in general just aren't really interested in what anyone else has to say. They only care if you're interested in what they're interested in. If not, their interest in you is directly correlated to how attractive they think you are.
Horrified, my then-confidante looked at me as if I had just killed a bunny, and then informed me that I was probably "too jaded for [my] own good."
Maybe. But I have a point. I mean, there's an irrationally rational reason why I love bike mechanics that work on my bike: they fix and take care of the most important thing in my life. You get the same effect from mothers when you coo over their not-so-attractive children, or from your friend when you pull out the well-practiced "ohhhhh my god, your new boy is soooooo cute! Where did you find him?" while you make a mental note of never stepping foot in whatever location your new friend found the awkward mess she's currently dating.
And, yes, I am, occasionally, disingenuous.
Like the time I promised everyone that I'm working really hard on hats. Because, um, I really haven't had the time to do that in like...the last two weeks.

Unfortunately, [and contrary to popular belief,] I sometimes have other priorities. Most of which are slowly dragging me under like really wet mud. It's like falling face first into the mud in a 'cross race; but instead of just eating dirt [literally], you find yourself waist-deep in brown goo. And you know that even if you somehow make it out of that cesspool, you still have a hill to climb...with a bike over your shoulder.
Which makes me sort of just want to stay and sink, instead of swim. But apparently there's a finish line, somewhere. So even though every week seems to pitch me into a new pool of mud, I'm still trying to crawl out [and make hats in that narrow margin between climbing the next hill and tumbling into the next obstacle].
I'm pretty sure no one's going to stop and help me out of this mess, unless, of course, it somehow serves their interests. I'm still trying [to make/finish hats] though. I might be jaded, but I'll be damned if anyone calls me a quitter.
[And for the record, I'm not being disingenuous this time.]

constipation

Yup, this might be wayyyy too much information, but things just weren't feeling right these past couple of days.
Going up hills felt sort of heavy. There was just general uncomfortable-ness. And then there were the sounds.
My bike was grinding. Pushing the pedals at certain points felt like I was working a pepper mill. It was either rock salt or my bottom bracket. With two winters under my bike's belt, I was pretty sure it just wanted to poop out the bottom bracket.
So it was off to therapy again. This time for a real reason though [and for my bike, not me].
But it wasn't my bottom bracket. It was these:

The bolts and screws that held my chainring were way too long, which meant that my chainring wasn't exactly stable. Which meant that my chain ring got slightly warped which is why my chain was hopping. The grinding sound was the unfortunate result of my chainring nearly rubbing against my chain stay.
The chainring got shorter bolts and was put on the outside of my crank. There's actually more than 1mm between my chainring and the chain stay now, and the hopping's mostly gone. My bike is positively purring.
I could marry the IBC staff. Like for realz.

cracks

"I saw you on Comm Ave last night," a friend said.
"I thought about opening my door on you. You know, just to make it a little more challenging."
As if this weather wasn't challenging enough. I feel like a Yeti on a tricycle these days - sans the training wheels [unfortunately].
Yeah, I know, I know; I knew what I was getting into by deciding to be a year-round commuter in Boston, so I shouldn't be complaining. I really wouldn't be whining so much if there weren't so many goddamn obstacles!
It's not even the insane drivers who, through their sheer douchery, will teach you how to stubbornly take the lane and stay there while they honk at you incessantly. It's the potholes.

Like my sanity due to being deprived of warmer weather, the streets are cracking under the pressure of snow, cold, and everything else. And of course, no one's really doing anything about it.
Okay, so maybe I should do something about it. But at this point it's almost like a masochistic little game. I want to see how long it'll take until the whole street is just one big hole. And then I want to see how long it'll take the city to notice it.

And of course, while this is all happening, I want to see if I can learn - through sheer necessity - how to do wheelies and bunny hops so I can climb out of any holes I get into.
Come next 'cross season, I'll probably be owning the races too. So, thanks, Boston!

chain breaker

My chain is apparently stretched out worse than Joan Rivers' face.
I'll obviously be doing some chain surgery as soon as a new pink chain comes into my therapist's IBC. I did buy this bad boy, though, and promptly neglected to take it out of my bag when I got home.

He's big and heavy, but I was told he'll last longer than the others.
And he comes with a replaceable pin...like all men should.

constants

It's good to know that some things remain consistent. Like the schizophrenic weather.
Oh, New England, why is the weather here as fickle as a slightly overweight BC undergrad in unfashionable Uggs and leggings? It was in the 40s a day ago - and now this. More snow.
I stubbornly rode in today, and rode home, patting myself on the back the whole way about how foolishly lucky I was to buy the first single-speed bike that came in my size which just so happened to be a 'cross bike. Seriously, the bitch can take anything.

Well, almost anything. When my tires got clotted with too much snow, I ended up having to walk some of the way. A nice gentleman even rolled down his window and slowed down his minivan as he approached me, and asked,
"Which way to BC main campus?"
...
Yeah I guess some things - like Boston drivers - remain consistent too.